A Colony of Girls
by Kate Livingston Willard · English · Gutenberg #41010 · 384,769 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Colony of Girls
Author: Kate Livingston Willard
Release date: October 10, 2012 [eBook #41010]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COLONY OF GIRLS ***
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
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Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A Colony of
Girls
By
KATE LIVINGSTON
WILLARD
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
Copyright, 1892, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. All rights reserved.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. THE LAWRENCES AND OTHERS, 1
II. NAN'S SHIP ARRIVES, 11
III. A LEAF FROM HELEN'S PAST, 24
IV. A SAIL ON THE "CYCLONE," 38
V. SUNSET-HOUR ON THE CLIFFS, 51
VI. A DINNER AT THE MANOR, 59
VII. A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY, 69
VIII. NAN REBELS, 88
IX. A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 97
X. MISS STUART'S ARRIVAL, 118
XI. DULL DAYS, 131
XII. EDDYING CURRENTS, 139
XIII. AN INVITATION, 156
XIV. A DANCE AT CRESCENT BEACH, 171
XV. HELEN IS PUZZLED, 184
XVI. "IT WAS ONLY MY IMAGINATION," 193
XVII. THE "VORTEX" DEPARTS, 206
XVIII. A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS, 224
XIX. A CABLEGRAM, 244
XX. "PEACE ON EARTH--GOOD WILL TO MEN," 259
A COLONY OF GIRLS.
CHAPTER I.
THE LAWRENCES AND OTHERS.
"I cannot understand why the children do not return from the beach.
They have been gone so long."
"None too long," sighed Nathalie Lawrence, swinging lazily to and fro
in a hammock which was hung across one end of the veranda. "What a
heaven it is without them. I declare, Helen," she continued,
addressing her sister in aggrieved tone, "we do get a lot of those
children, somehow or other. For my part, I cannot see why you let them
stay about with us all the time, when they are a thousand times better
off with Mary," and she gave a vindictive tug at a rope fastened to
the railing, which sent the hammock back and forth with the utmost
rapidity.
"Take care, Nat; you will be out next, and there will be a hubbub
worse than the children would think of making in their wildest
moments."
The young girl who thus spoke laughed a low, musical laugh, and looked
up from her book with a pair of wide-open blue eyes.
"Nathalie, as usual, thinks only of herself," said Helen with a frown,
as she walked away.
"I never can say one word about those children without raising Helen's
ire. She spoils them, and she might as well admit it."
"In my short and uneventful career," responded Jean smiling, "I have
not found that people are over-fond of admitting anything, least of
all their weaknesses. I don't see how you can expect Helen to be
superior to all the rest of the world--yourself and myself included.
Now, imagine," she continued tantalizingly, "if anyone insisted upon
your admitting your weakness for Mr. Church----"
"Oh, keep quiet, Jean; you are too stupid."
"Dear, dear," cried Jean, jumping up and closing her book, "of course
I am, and that is my weakness; so now we are quits."
Nathalie tossed her head as much as her position would permit.
"Jean Lawrence," she said solemnly, "you bore me."
"What a catastrophe!" Jean flung back her head with a merry laugh.
"Good-by, dear; you are the picture of injured innocence."
"Jean, come back," cried Nathalie, struggling to obtain an upright
position. "I do think you are too bad. Ah, well, some day,"--then
breaking into song:
"Some day, some day, some day I shall meet you,
Love, I know not when nor how;
Love, I know not when nor how. Only this,
Only this, only this, that once you loved me;
Only this, I love you now----"
"Rats!" called out a small voice from the lawn below.
Nathalie raised herself on her elbow, and peered through the railing.
"Larry, I am thunderstruck. What is the meaning of that weird
expression?"
"Nathalie singing a love song," cried Larry, scampering about on the
lawn. "Oh, what fun!"
"Larry," called Helen, coming out once more on to the veranda. "Where
are Willie and Gladys? Why did you stay so long? I have been worrying
about you."
"Oh, they're coming along. Now, don't you worry, Helen, 'cause we was
all right. You don't need never to send Mary with us," he added
eagerly, "'cause we wouldn't get drownded, nor nothing, really."
Jean strolled back from the other end of the veranda, and put her hand
on Helen's shoulder.
"Larry, love," she said, looking down at her little brother, "your
grammar is something to be deplored."
A fleeting smile lit up Helen's pale face and gentle brown eyes.
"Ah, here come the little culprits," she cried, starting forward.
"Gladys, my precious baby, I have been worried to death about you.
What naughty chicks to have staid so long. Willie, I can never trust
you."
Willie was a grave little fellow, the eldest of the three children.
"Why, Helen, we weren't gone long. Gladys was good, and so was
Larry--that is pretty----" he added deprecatingly. "The moment I said
'Come on, children,' we all started; only Gladys, she couldn't walk
very fast, so Larry wouldn't wait for us. Oh," sighed Willie, his
grave little face in a pucker at the recollection, "I would rather
Mary went along with Gladys another time."
"Anyhow I was awful good, sister," lisped little Gladys, trying to
frown on Willie, "only----"
"Only your short little legs would not carry you any quicker. Is that
not so, darling? Well, since you were all good, there is nothing to
scold you about."
"Helen's faith is sublime," laughed Jean, in an aside to Nathalie.
Helen took little Gladys in her arms, and sat down in a large rocker,
which stood close to the front door.
She was a slender, frail-looking girl. Her soft, brown hair was
arranged close to her head with the utmost simplicity, and her rather
pale face would perhaps have been plain, had it not been redeemed by a
pair of beautiful sad brown eyes. She was the eldest of the Lawrences,
and it seemed to her only a brief time since the Angel of Death had,
twice in one short year, visited their home, leaving them bereft of
father and mother.
Her father had been a physician of undoubted skill, a man of wide
learning and great culture. Had the lash of poverty given an incentive
to his somewhat lagging spirit, he might have commanded the attention
and the admiration of his fellow-men; but his was a nature of great
shyness and reserve, and when his father died, leaving him a
comfortable fortune, he had, with an almost unconscious sigh of
relief, turned his back on ambition and withdrawn to the old homestead
in the sleepy little town of Hetherford, content with a small country
practice which left him undisturbed hours among his books and in his
laboratory.
Mrs. Lawrence's inclinations were thoroughly social; but so unbounded
was her faith in her husband's judgment that it never occurred to her
to complain of the narrowness and isolation of their life in
Hetherford. As her girls grew older, however, she reproached herself
with the thought that she was hardly doing them justice in thus
secluding them from the advantages of contact with the great world
which lay beyond their own pretty village. She appeased her conscience
by giving them occasional visits to town and one long, happy summer in
Europe, which they had enjoyed to their hearts' content.
The winter following this last delightful holiday, Dr. Lawrence had
been stricken with a fatal illness and, after weeks of suffering, had
passed away.
Mrs. Lawrence survived this blow but two months, and at little Gladys'
birth had turned to Helen with a weary, heartbroken sigh:
"My darling, I am so lonely--your father. Take care of the little
ones--this wee lamb. God bless you, my----"
Helen had sunk speechless at her mother's bedside, until the sound of
a wailing cry brought her once more to herself.
"My dear," said gentle Aunt Helen, leaning over her, "won't you take
the poor little baby? Perhaps she will help to comfort you."
And Helen took her little sister in her arms, and made her way into
the nursery, where, in two small cribs, side by side, lay her little
brothers, fast asleep.
Jean and Nathalie stood by the nursery window, looking out into the
night. At Helen's entrance they turned sharply.
"O Helen, how is mamma?" Jean stopped short, appalled at the change in
her sister's face.
"Helen," she cried, a sharp ring of pain in her voice, "mamma is not--"
"Yes, Jean--Nathalie--mamma is gone. Oh, what shall we do," Helen
moaned.
"My poor children," said Aunt Helen tenderly, crossing the room and
putting an arm around little Nathalie, and clasping Jean's hand
tightly in hers; "your dear mamma is gone. She was so sad and lonely
without papa. Oh, darlings! do not grieve, but think of her as happy
and at rest. You, Helen, must learn to be a mother to these little
sisters and brothers, and teach them all your dear mamma would have
them know. And Jean and even little Nathalie, too, can help."
"Auntie"--Helen's tears were falling fast--"I will do all I can. Poor
baby," she whispered, and she kissed the soft little face, which was
nestled in her arms, and then she turned toward the cribs, and looked
with loving eyes at the sleeping children. "God bless them, and help
me."
Since that sad night six years had rolled by. Nathalie was now
eighteen, Jean her elder by two years, and Helen's twenty-third
birthday was close at hand. Larry and Willie were respectively eight
and ten, and little Gladys was fast outgrowing her babyhood.
Aunt Helen, Mrs. Dennis, had since Mrs. Lawrence's death made her
permanent home with her nieces and nephews. She was a sweet, gentle
woman, a widow and childless, and her lonely life had been thus
gladdened by the love of this household of happy-go-lucky children.
She had always been delicate, and during the past few years had become
so great an invalid that she rarely left her room.
Thus Helen Lawrence had been obliged to assume unusual cares and
responsibilities for so young a girl, and these were not without their
effect on her mind and character.
For years the manor house of Hetherford had been in the possession of
the Lawrences, and no family in the town was better known, or more
universally loved. The manor itself was a charming old park,
stretching out far enough to make it no small walk to compass its
grounds. Grand old trees shaded the well-kept lawns, and pretty
graveled paths, lined with box-wood, led hither and thither.
The house was old-fashioned in the extreme, large, square, and
commodious. A broad veranda ran around three sides of it, and across
the front there was an upper balcony, which, in the season, was
covered with trailing vines of roses, honeysuckles, and passion
flowers. During the warm summer days this was a favorite retreat of
the girls. A few rugs were thrown down, comfortable wicker chairs were
scattered here and there, and on the low round table in the center
there was always a motley collection of books, writing materials, and
work-baskets. Through occasional openings in the vines were revealed
pretty vistas of lawn and flowering rosebeds, beyond which stretched
the blue waters of the sound, sparkling in the sunshine as if strewn
with a thousand jewels. It was, indeed, an Arcadian spot.
Within doors everything was equally old-fashioned and comfortable.
Opening on to the broad hall, which ran through the middle of the
house, were four large airy rooms, simply but substantially furnished,
and with an unmistakable air of being lived in. Upstairs, in addition
to the rooms occupied by the family, each one of which was bright and
cheery, and clearly revealed the individuality of its occupant, were
several guest chambers, with heavy four-post bedsteads and quaint
mahogany dressing-tables, and during the summer season these were
rarely untenanted, for the Lawrences' hospitality was as old-fashioned
as their home.
Quiet Hetherford was almost unknown as a summer resort, but the few
people who had once found their way there came again and again, and
with them all the Lawrences were on intimate and friendly terms. It
was not strange that young men came but rarely to this out-of-the-way
little village, but a colony of girls thrived and were happy there;
happier, perhaps, for this very lack of the masculine element. The
girls often laughed merrily over it, and no one of them seemed to take
it very much to heart, save pretty little dark-eyed Emily Varian, who
spent her summers with her uncle, Dr. Evelyn Birdsall, the
Presbyterian minister.
"It is deplorable," she sighed, "and if the girls were not selfishly
lazy they could quite easily get some men to come out here. Certainly
town is not so far off as to make us quite out of the world. It is
nothing but stupid nonsense and vanity on the girls' part. They think
it is something fine and independent never to see anything of men. For
my part, I should think they would be ashamed of it."
There was one girl who always laughed good-humoredly at Emily's
grumbling, and she was none other than charming Eleanor Hill. However,
she had less cause to complain, for while Emily went from her winter
home in one little country town to sleepier Hetherford for the summer
months, Miss Hill for more than half of every year led the gayest of
lives in New York. When June came with its warm sunshine and long
days, she and her mother gladly turned their face toward pretty,
dreamy Hetherford; to them the dearest spot in the world.
Mollie Andrews said that, for her part, she didn't care. Taking it all
in all, she did not see but that they had a pretty good time. The
Andrews had been coming to Hetherford for years, and were all deeply
attached to the place; Mollie's handsome, scatterbrained brother Dick
had set the seal of his approval on their choice of a summer resort,
and thenceforth Mollie would have deemed it nothing short of heresy to
call the place stupid. To be sure, Dick rarely turned up oftener than
once a week, but then her cousin Clifford Archer, nicknamed "the fatal
beauty," was wont to put in an appearance for a few days, frequently
with his great chum Wendell Churchill, whose yacht was quite a
familiar object in Hetherford Harbor.
"It is perfectly absurd of Emily," Mollie would end, with a toss of
her head.
Emily always looked scornful, and Nan Birdsall, happy-go-lucky Nan,
who rarely went away from Hetherford, would laugh gleefully.
"Poor Em," she exclaimed one evening, after one of her cousin's
tirades, "you are man-crazy. Never mind, dear; you wait. I know a
thing or two, and by and by when my ship comes in," looking around at
the girls, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "you will be
surprised. Perhaps we will have more men here than we have bargained
for."
"What do you mean, Nan?" they cried in chorus; but not a bit of
satisfaction would Nan give them.
The parsonage adjoined the manor, and an opening in the hedge made
intercourse between the two families an easy matter. Just across the
road was the inn, where all the summer visitors stayed, and a quainter
retreat could not be imagined. They formed only a small circle of
people, but many were the happy times they had together.
CHAPTER II.
NAN'S SHIP ARRIVES.
"I wonder why we couldn't have a swim this morning, Jean?" Nathalie
stood before her mirror, arranging her pretty brown tresses which, in
spite of vigorous efforts with brush and comb, would curl, and refuse
to be orderly. "Of course, Aunt Helen will say it is too early in the
season."
"Well, I think that is absurd. It is warm enough. 'Afric's sunny
clime' is not a circumstance to it. Look out, Jean, at the sunlight on
the lawn. When it has that pinkish tinge, you may be sure it's hot."
Jean peeped through the half-open shutters.
"Oh! what a sweet day. Yes, it is going to be hot, and, unless Aunt
Helen objects seriously, we will surely go in."
She crossed the room and, opening the wardrobe door, took out a pretty
striped cotton gown. "Warm enough for this, isn't it?"
Nathalie nodded.
In a few minutes more the girls were both in the dining room. Helen
and the children were already at breakfast.
"How late you are," cried Helen, looking up from an open letter. "I
wish you----"
"Never mind, dear," interrupted Nathalie. "It will all be the same a
hundred years hence."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," sighed Helen. "Gladys, don't beat on the
table with your spoon. The noise is distracting."
"And although your tones are dulcet, my love, suppose you give us that
little song after breakfast," and Jean slipped into her place at her
little sister's side.
Gladys turned and threw her arms around her.
"I didn't see you come in, Jeanie."
"That is because you have not eyes in the back of your head, pet."
"Of course I haven't. Nobody has, 'cept fairies and princesses, I
s'pose," and Gladys straightened herself up, and, in so doing,
overturned her glass of milk into her lap.
"Gladys," cried Helen sharply, "look at your nice, clean frock. It is
a shame."
The little girl's lips trembled, and her bright blue eye overflowed
with tears.
"You don't s'pose I did it a-purpose--for nothing."
"No, no, dear. Of course not. Don't cry. I didn't mean to scold you.
There, get down and run up to Mary, like a good little girl, and have
your frock changed," for the sight of tears always put an end to
Helen's best efforts at severity.
But Gladys' feelings had been hurt, and now that she was mistress of
the situation, she had no intention of drying her eyes.
"I think you were unkind, Helen," she began plaintively.
"Don't be a baby, Gladys," interposed Nathalie irritably. "I declare,
I think it a perfect nuisance to have our breakfast spoiled in this
way. If you can't behave, you had better have yours in the nursery."
The child's tears were about to begin afresh when a pleasant voice was
heard at the door.
"Good-morning. Can I come in?" And without awaiting permission Miss
Hill crossed the room. In her pretty flannel gown and garden hat she
made a very pleasing picture. "How are you, puss?" And she stooped and
kissed little Gladys' tear-stained cheek, smiling meanwhile at the
girls, as she divined the situation.
"All right," said the little girl, her face brightening perceptibly,
for she dearly loved Miss Hill.
"Helen, here is a rose," said Eleanor, "and when you smell it you will
realize that June is here."
Helen smiled her thanks.
"Well, Eleanor, what started you so early?" asked Jean, as she
buttered her roll.
"Early? You girls don't know what early means. Why it is after nine
and I had my breakfast a good hour ago."
"Horror!" shuddered Nathalie. "The very thought is pain."
"They are spoiled," spoke Helen, "and even I am getting into bad
habits. I simply gave up struggling, and set the breakfast hour a half
hour later, with the desperate hope that it might bring them down on
time."
"Girls, you ought to be ashamed," said Eleanor, with well-feigned
reproach in her tone.
"What nonsense! You would do exactly the same yourself if Mrs. Moffins
were not such a disciplinarian. You can't make me think you are so
superior," laughed Nathalie.
Helen rose, and, pushing open the blind door, stepped out on the
veranda. It was a beautiful June morning, bright and sunshiny. The air
was soft and warm, and the gentle south wind felt like a caress. The
fragrance of roses and honeysuckles was almost intoxicating. Every now
and then the delicious stillness was broken by the soft plaintive song
of a bird. The old manor looked more beautiful than ever to Helen, who
loved every nook and cranny of it. She stood for a moment, shading her
eyes with her hand from the sun.
"What a pretty day," she murmured to herself. "Oh, I wish----" but
then a voice called her, and she went back into the house.
"Helen," said Jean, coming out from the dining room, "ask Auntie if we
can go in bathing. It is so warm, and we are wild to go in."
"Very well," nodded Helen, as she went upstairs.
Mrs. Dennis was in her chair by the window, with her breakfast tray on
a small table at her side.
"Good-morning, darling," she said cheerily. "Where did these delicious
strawberries come from?" glancing at the pretty cut-glass dish which
was filled with them.
"They are the first out of the garden, Auntie, and I was determined
that no one should have them but your own dear self."
"Thank you, my dear, it was just like you to think of Auntie first. I
shall indeed enjoy them."
"Do please; and oh, Auntie! the girls want to go bathing to-day. Are
you willing they should?"
"I am afraid the water will be cold."
"Well, we have had a good deal of warm weather, and I think it can't
be very frigid. I suppose we might as well say 'yes,' Auntie?"
"Of course," replied Aunt Helen laughingly. "Past experience has
taught us that when Jean and Nathalie have set their hearts on a
thing, we might as well surrender at once. You won't go in, dear?"
"No, indeed," and Helen shivered at the idea. "I must go and tell the
girls, for they will want to know."
When the roomy buckboard came to the door, Nathalie jumped into the
front seat and gathered up the reins.
"Hurry and get in, girls," she called. "The horses are very fresh this
morning," and in a moment more they were bowling down the avenue.
"Stop at the inn, Nat," said Jean, "and we will get the letters, and
ask Mollie to go down to the beach with us."
As they pulled up before the inn, Mollie Andrews came running out on
to the porch, with a package of letters in her hand.
"Don't get out, Jean; I have your mail. Have you got room enough for
me?"
"Certainly. Jump right in," cried Nathalie. "The tide is just right
now, so we must hurry. Oh! isn't this jolly? I love the delicious
sense of excitement one always feels at the first swim of the season.
Say, Moll, will you go in?"
"I don't know. Yes, I think I will."
It was quite a pretty scene, this bright June morning, down on the
little stretch of sands which Hetherford dignified by the name of "The
Beach."
Little children were digging in the sand and filling their pails, and
some of the small boys were running up and down, now in the water, and
now out. The girls were in a group in front of the bathing houses, all
chattering at once, and discussing the momentous question as to
whether to make the plunge or not.
In a brief time Jean and Nathalie were swimming far out, and Mollie
came creeping timidly to the water's edge.
"Oh! how I dread it," she laughed.
"Nonsense, Moll; go ahead. It will do you good."
Mollie walked off, and Helen and Eleanor, who had found a sheltered
nook, watched the bathers for a while in silence. By and by Helen's
gaze strayed from the bathers to the stretch of blue water beyond, and
a slightly troubled look crept into her eyes. A sudden, deep sigh
recalled Eleanor's thoughts to her companion.
"Why, Helen, what world of melancholy does that sigh proclaim?"
"Oh, I don't know," evasively. "I am low-spirited this morning,
somehow or other."
"Can't you tell me the reason, dear?"
Helen did not answer, and for a moment Eleanor watched her closely.
Something in the delicate face and in the eyes, in which, of late, a
shadow always lurked, touched her.
"I would love your confidence, Helen," she said at last; "but unless
you can give it to me freely, I would not wish to ask it of you."
Helen stirred uneasily.
"Ah, well, for a moment I thought to speak to you of something
troublesome, but be glad, dear, that I have changed my mind. I am
going to speak of something pleasant instead. Do you remember my
friend Miss Stuart? She has visited me several times, but always in
the winter."
"Oh, yes! I remember Jean's writing me about her."
Helen turned a questioning glance on Eleanor, but the girl's
expression was perfectly non-committal.
"Yes? Well, she is coming here to visit me later. The time is not set
as yet, but I hope it will be early next month."
"Indeed. How nice. But, Helen, I thought she was very gay and devoted
to society. What will she do in this colony of girls, with scarcely a
man to say a pretty thing to her?"
"I don't know," replied Helen, a shade of annoyance crossing her face.
"I think, perhaps, the girls may be mistaken about her. I feel quite
sure she will be happy here."
Just then Nan Birdsall came rushing down over the sands, warm but
radiant.
"Going in, Nan?" called Eleanor in greeting.
"No, indeed," breathlessly. "I hate the water more than a cat does,"
and Nan dropped down on the sand at Eleanor's side, and, taking off
her hat, fanned her flushed face.
"Where is Em this morning?" queried Helen.
"What a superfluous question," laughed Nan. "Don't you see that the
_Sylph_ is in the harbor? Of course, Em has Mr. Churchill in tow."
"How will Nathalie like that?" asked Eleanor with an amused smile.
"Oh, Nat won't care," replied Nan, picking up a pebble and sending it
skimming across the water. "She is far too sensible."
"Look over your shoulder, Nan, and see your prediction verified;" and
surely enough, strolling across the beach, in their direction, came
Emily Varian, with Wendell Churchill at her side.
"Isn't Em in her element?" said Nan, lowering her voice.
Nothing could have been more characteristic than the welcome the three
girls gave Mr. Churchill. Into Eleanor Hill's courteous greeting was
thrown just enough of personal interest as to be slightly flattering.
Helen's "How do you do" was both shy and reserved, and Nan just nodded
indifferently, and continued her occupation of skipping stones.
"We ought to be going home," announced Helen presently.
"I wonder if the girls are not ready yet? Oh, yes! there they come!"
as the three girls came down from the bathing house and joined the
little group. Suddenly Nan dropped her pebbles and sprang to her feet
with an exclamation:
"Oh, girls, what fun! My ship has come in at last!"
"Why, Nan, are you going out of your mind?" cried Jean. "What ship?"
"Look, girls, look! Don't you see that big schooner just rounding the
point?"
"Yes, but what of it?"
"Why, that's the U. S. Coast Survey schooner _Vortex_, and she's going
to be stationed here for a long time, and Dick knows all the officers
aboard. How is that for a piece of news?"
"This must be your secret," laughed Eleanor.
"Of course, and didn't I keep it well? Dick told me weeks ago that
they were coming."
"I say, it is jolly. We will have some fun, won't we?" It was Nathalie
who spoke.
"It is a perfect god-send," declared Emily Varian, solemnly. "Nan, your
secret is a success, and I congratulate you."
"I wonder," ruminated Jean, "who the men are, and whether we will
really like them."
"Time will tell," spoke Helen, a bit indifferently. "Come, girls, we
must be going. Here is the carriage."
Almost every evening the young people gathered together on the
Lawrences' broad veranda, and to-night was no exception to the rule.
When the girls strolled out from the dining room, they found Nan and
Emily sitting on the steps.
"Why, we never heard you at all," said Jean. "You must have come over
the lawn like--oh dear, I can't think of a comparison. The night is
too warm for one to exert one's brain unnecessarily."
Nathalie seated herself on the railing.
"Here come Eleanor and Wendell Churchill."
"Ah!" laughed Jean teasingly. Her sister looked around at her with
heightened color.
"Don't be silly, Jean."
"Do you know I have hardly seen you to-day, Miss Nathalie," said
Churchill, finding a place on the railing at her side. "Where have you
kept yourself?"
"Everywhere--anywhere. I have not been hard to find."
Nathalie's eyes were smiling wickedly into his, and his gave her back
a smile.
"Now, let me explain," he began.
"Oh, don't let me put you to any unnecessary trouble," she interrupted
with mock formality.
"You are very cruel to-night," said Churchill laughing. "By the way,
Dick and I went down to the _Vortex_ this afternoon, and there are
some awfully good fellows aboard. I hope you girls will give them a
good time."
"It seems to me that the responsibility ought to rest with them,"
interposed Eleanor Hill.
"Otherwise we should feel absolutely overwhelmed," said Nan comically.
"Here comes Dick now," exclaimed Nathalie, "and he has a strange man
with him."
In a moment more Dick Andrews gained the veranda, and introduced his
friend Beverly Dudley, of the _Vortex_.
It was Jean who came forward and, extending her hand, bade him
welcome.
"Ah, Mr. Dudley, I fear you will feel yourself overwhelmed with such a
bevy of girls, but let me help you. This is my sister Nathalie--my
friends Miss Hill, Miss Birdsall, and Miss Varian. Unfortunately my
elder sister is not here to receive you. She will join us presently.
Emily, can't you make room for Mr. Dudley on the settle?" she added
glancing about her.
Emily smiled radiantly, and Dudley, who seemed to be a charming youth,
made his way to her side.
Leaving Nathalie and Em each happy in a _tête-à-tête_, the other girls
formed a circle of which jolly Dick was the center, and much
good-natured chaffing and light-hearted laughter were in order.
After a while Helen appeared in the doorway with two mandolins in her
hands.
"What a good idea," exclaimed Eleanor enthusiastically. "Now we can
have some singing."
"I can't very well shake hands, Mr. Dudley," said Helen, in response
to Jean's introduction.
"Let me relieve you, Miss Lawrence."
"Thanks. Will you give this mandolin to my sister Nathalie?"
They all joined in a song, and their voices, with the mandolin
accompaniment, sounded wondrously sweet in the soft night air.
It was growing late when Nan at last jumped up.
"I am sorry to break up the party, but Emily and I must be going.
Father will have the town crier out pretty soon."
There was a general move, and Mr. Dudley crossed to Helen's side.
"I have had a charming evening, Miss Lawrence. I hope you will honor
us with your presence on the _Vortex_ very soon." He spoke with the
soft drawl peculiar to Southerners.
"It will be a great pleasure, and indeed we will."
"Won't you let me walk home with you, Miss Varian?" he asked. "It is
rather late for you to go alone."
Emily's answer was lost in a merry peal of laughter from Nan.
"Mr. Dudley evidently appreciates the dangers lurking in that desolate
stretch of lawn between here and the parsonage," she said with
good-natured sarcasm.
The girls joined in a general laugh, in spite of themselves, but Emily
frowned portentously.
After "good-night" had been said all around, and Helen found herself
alone in her room, she took out from between the leaves of a book the
letter she had received in the morning. As she re-read it she glanced
up from time to time at a likeness which stood on the table close at
hand. It was the face of a very beautiful woman--a face delicate, oval
in shape, with straight eyebrows, from under which looked out a pair
of eyes with a world of witchery in their depths; the whole crowned by
a halo of soft hair.
Helen dropped the letter in her lap, and folding her hands over it,
fell into a deep reverie. Rousing herself at last, she slowly crossed
the room, and opened a little drawer in her writing desk. There,
hidden among some papers, lay another photograph--a man's face this
time. As she looked at it steadily a heavy sigh escaped her lips, for
it seemed to her that the grave eyes looked at her reproachfully. With
a half-impatient exclamation she tossed it back into its hiding-place
and closed the drawer sharply, and not until sleep claimed her did
these two faces fade entirely from her mental vision.
CHAPTER III.
A LEAF FROM HELEN'S PAST.
Many years before the opening of this story the Lawrence children
counted among their dearest friends a certain pleasant-faced, sturdy
little chap, Guy Appleton by name, who never considered a day quite
complete unless at least a part of it was spent at the hospitable
manor. His own pretty home, Rose Cottage, lay only a stone's throw
away, and there the little Lawrence girls passed many a happy hour.
Mrs. Appleton and Mrs. Lawrence had been schoolgirls together, and the
flight of years had but strengthened their friendship. Mrs. Appleton
was delighted that her shy little son had found such pleasant
companions, and in every way encouraged his intercourse with them. The
Lawrences were all dear to Guy's boyish heart, but none held quite the
same place as Helen. She had been especially kind and friendly to him,
and for her his affection was particularly deep and adoring.
The years, as they rolled by, served but to increase his love for his
little playmate, and from his allegiance to her he never swerved. When
his college days were over and he was about to sail for Europe on an
extended tour, he found it impossible to say farewell without
speaking to her of the subject which lay nearest his heart.
Helen was very young and inexperienced, and these were the first words
of love to which she had ever listened. Her tender heart was deeply
touched, and Guy went away gladdened by her shy expression of sorrow
at his departure, and by the whispered "Yes" that her lips spoke
falteringly.
Helen had accepted her youthful lover, and many were the rejoicings
among the small Hetherford circle over what they termed Helen's
engagement; although the girl herself looked a little grave over so
serious a term. At the manor the new relationship was accepted gladly,
for it seemed only a fitting ending to Guy's long friendship in their
family.
Three years slipped by; years in which Guy bent every energy to the
study of architecture, which he had chosen as his profession. He had
decided talent, and by continued assiduity was making a name for
himself among his colleagues.
Little change had taken place in Hetherford except such as the flight
of time must necessarily bring. Helen was now quite a woman, with a
pretty air of gravity which the new cares had lent to her.
When finally, one crisp October day, Guy walked in upon them, his face
bronzed by the recent ocean trip, his slender figure grown broad and
strong, his blue eyes beaming with happiness, he was welcomed with the
greatest warmth of affection, and as they sat about the crackling
flames in the manor hall his long absence seemed almost a dream.
It was during the following winter that Helen had her first
misgivings as to her real feeling for Guy. Indeed, sometimes, her
engagement oppressed her strangely, and she was assailed by an
overwhelming longing to be free.
Women are indeed incomprehensible, and when the largess of their love
is not given, it is rare, save through some sharp lesson, that they
appreciate to the full the men whose hearts they possess. In this
Helen was, perhaps, in nowise different from the rest of her sex. Be
this as it may, Guy's unchanging love and devotion sometimes wearied
her, and failed to call forth an answering love in her own heart. Yet
the months glided by, and she had not the courage to tell her lover
the truth. She was not always successful in hiding it from him,
however, and once or twice a faint suspicion of her indifference came
to him.
The summer came and went, and almost a year had drifted by since his
return. Guy finally broached the subject of marriage.
At his first words Helen was filled with dismay, and as she listened
with down-bent head and averted eyes, Guy was suddenly conscious of a
great lack in her love for him, and a sense of foreboding swept over
him. To his long and pleading request that a time might be set for
their marriage, Helen put forth the children's claim upon her; and
when he gently urged her to reconsider her determination, she answered
him so sharply and curtly that he yielded, convinced that it would be
unwise to press the matter any further.
Helen's lips had almost formed the words "Guy, I do not love you as I
should," but her lover's face, pale with grief at her all too evident
reluctance, robbed her of the needful courage.
Guy was not a man of half measures, and, having accepted Helen's
decision, resolutely put out of his mind his painful doubts, and
trusted to the future to strengthen her love for him. She was greatly
touched by his generosity and half ashamed of the stand she had taken,
and now that the question of marriage was indefinitely postponed,
persuaded herself that she was deeply attached to him, and that it
would have been both cruel and unwise to have broken her engagement.
In September Guy took his vacation and, his mother having volunteered
to go to the mountains with him, he induced Helen to accompany them.
She had many qualms of conscience at leaving the children, but the
invitation was a tempting one, and she had not the heart to disappoint
her lover a second time. So, after strict injunctions to Mary, and
urgent entreaties to Jean and Nathalie, she started off.
It was a delightful holiday for all three. Mrs. Appleton, who had no
thought for anyone but her son, was overjoyed to see him in such high
spirits, for of late she had thought him both sad and depressed; and
Guy felt that his happiness was quite complete, for never had he had
Helen so much to himself, and never had she been so frankly
affectionate and sweet with him. The days glided by like a dream, even
to Helen. She had thrust all worry and anxiety from her, and entered
with eager interest and zest into all the plans for their pleasant
journeyings. If now and then she found herself a bit wearied by Guy's
unceasing attentions, she strenuously hid the fact from him and called
herself strictly to account for the unworthy thought.
It was at a hotel on the borders of a beautiful lake that Helen first
saw Lillian Stuart. One morning Guy had gone off fishing, and as Mrs.
Appleton was writing letters in the seclusion of her room, Helen took
her book and wandered out into the grounds in search of a cool, shady
spot where she could read in peace. Coming at length upon a retired
nook, she found herself forestalled, for, comfortably ensconced under
the shade of a great willow, was a woman so beautiful that, as Helen
caught sight of her, she could scarce repress an exclamation. The girl
looked up, and their eyes met. Helen shyly dropped hers and passed
quickly on, but that brief glimpse left a vivid impression upon her
mind of a well-poised head, crowned with the most wonderful auburn
hair, of a face dazzlingly fair, and a pair of deep violet eyes.
All day long Helen's thoughts reverted to this vision, and that
afternoon, when Guy returned from his fishing, she gave him a glowing
description of her encounter.
Just before dinner, while they were standing together in the corridor,
the girl came toward them on her way to the dining room. Helen laid
her hand impulsively on her lover's arm.
"Please look, Guy," she whispered. "Here she comes. Isn't she
beautiful? Why, Guy," excitedly, "do you know her? She is bowing to
you."
"Is that the woman you mean?" he asked, when he had gravely returned
her bow.
"Why, yes. Where did you ever know her?"
"I met her at Baden, when I was over there."
"How strange," said Helen musingly. "Why did you never tell me about
her?"
"Because I never liked her," he replied with decision, "and I trust
you and she will not meet."
A curiously unaccountable feeling of resentment swept across Helen.
"I don't suppose there is much chance of it," she returned coldly.
It is the unexpected that happens; for one afternoon, only a few days
later, as Helen stood talking with some friends on the broad hotel
veranda, Miss Stuart joined the group and, before Helen had hardly
appreciated the situation, an introduction had ensued.
In spite of Guy's protests a friendship sprang up between the two
girls. It seemed to him that there was something almost pointed in the
way Helen ignored his request, and followed up this acquaintance, to
which he had so strenuously objected. Helen was not only fascinated
and charmed by Miss Stuart's meteor-like brilliance, but felt,
moreover, the keenest annoyance at the masterful way in which Guy had
laid his injunctions upon her. He had maintained a strict reticence
concerning his reasons, giving her no further explanation than that
the friendship ran counter to his wishes. Helen's defiance was
aroused, and perhaps a growing sense of _ennui_ in her lover's society
increased the temptation to welcome eagerly any new interest.
Meanwhile Miss Stuart had a well-defined motive in trying to secure
Helen's friendship, and an even stronger desire to lessen Guy's
influence with the girl. Whatever her past acquaintance with Guy had
been, it would have been apparent to anyone less easily deceived than
Helen, that she bore him no good will.
The rest of the holiday time, which had begun so happily, was spoiled
for Guy, and he was relieved when at length their faces were turned
toward home, feeling sure that a separation from Miss Stuart was all
that was necessary to awaken Helen's loyalty to him and to put an end
to what he considered a most unfortunate episode in the girl's life.
To his deep sorrow their return did not accomplish his expectations,
for not only had a correspondence been begun between the girls, but
Helen's whole bearing toward him changed completely, and her manner
was both cold and distant. Finally, one evening, she came to him, and,
after a few preliminaries, announced her intention of visiting Miss
Stuart at her home in town. This brief announcement aroused Guy's
quick temper, and before he realized what had happened, bitter words
had been spoken, and Helen had swept out of the room.
The following day she left for town. When a week had passed without a
line from her, Guy could endure it no longer and sought an interview,
battling with his indignation at the thought that it must take place
under Miss Stuart's roof.
Many a time afterward he tried to recall the exact words that were
spoken on that memorable occasion, but everything seemed unreal to
him, save Helen's face, pale with the determination not to accede to
his wishes. Finally, he could recall asking her if she desired her
freedom. Alas, poor Guy! The quick spontaneity of her response
shattered his last hope.
"Ah, yes, Guy, please. We will be so much better friends, then."
"Friends!" he echoed bitterly; "after all these years."
Helen put her hand on his shoulder, but he gently pushed her from him.
"It is as well I should know the truth now as later. You do not love
me, Helen. There is nothing left now, but for us to part."
When he was leaving a sudden recollection came to him of the cause of
all this unhappiness, and crushing down his own bitterness, he
endeavored in quiet and carefully chosen words to dissuade her from a
friendship which he feared she would rue, but she maintained an almost
unbroken silence, and the expression of her face told him that his
warning was of no avail. So they parted.
Guy was more than justified in his distrust of Lillian Stuart. Had he
been a man of less delicate sense of honor he could have righted
himself in Helen's eyes by simply relating to her some incontrovertible
facts; but the circumstances which had given him his knowledge sealed
his lips.
While at college, the name, Lillian Stuart, had grown familiar to him,
through hearing her praises sounded by his chum Nelson Leonard. The
year after their graduation they ran across each other at Baden, and
their college friendship was resumed. Guy was not long in discovering
that there was something radically wrong with his friend, and the
cause, which all Baden apparently understood, was soon made clear to
him.
Among the most noted people frequenting Baden at this time, were a
Mrs. Ogden-Stuart and her beautiful daughter. It had been understood
on their arrival that Miss Stuart was engaged to the good-looking
American, Mr. Leonard, who was traveling in their party. This fact,
however, did not seem to stand in the way of her flirting openly with
every eligible man in the place, nor prevent her from receiving their
constant homage. Leonard was evidently wretched, and there was a touch
of recklessness in his manner, which, Guy felt, boded no good to a man
of his highly strung, sensitive nature. For a week after Guy's arrival
things drifted on, but there was something in the air that seemed to
foretell a crisis. Guy had been presented to Miss Stuart, but in spite
of her beauty and fascination found nothing in her to like or respect.
This Miss Stuart felt instinctively, and as she was accustomed to
admiration, it stung her into a desire to win something more than
indifference from Leonard's friend. Her efforts were totally
unsuccessful, and, as her treatment of her lover became less and less
loyal, Guy withdrew altogether from her society, showing her no
further courtesy than an occasional bow of recognition. In the
meantime Miss Stuart's latest affair, with a certain Frenchman of
unenviable reputation, was giving Baden food for gossip and keeping it
on the _qui vive_ for a scandal.
Late one afternoon, while Guy sat on the veranda reading letters from
home, Miss Stuart and Leonard passed him. The girl's face wore a
mocking smile, her eyes a taunt; Leonard was white as death, and his
lips twitched piteously. Guy's own face grew stern as he looked up at
them, and when Miss Stuart threw him a careless word in salutation he
could scarcely frame a civil reply.
That evening Leonard went to Guy's room, and flinging himself down in
a chair, gave voice for the first time to his misery.
"I tell you, Appleton," he exclaimed, with a hard laugh, "I shall
throw up the game pretty soon. I may be a coward; but it takes more
courage than I have to face this thing any longer."
Guy was more startled than he cared to reveal by his friend's
passionate, despairing vehemence; and he made an effort to treat the
matter lightly and to divert Leonard's thoughts, but his efforts were
not crowned with success. When Leonard had left him he paced up and
down the room, revolving in his mind what step he should take. At
length he determined to go to Miss Stuart, and appeal to her, hoping
that so direct a course would result favorably.
He began the interview awkwardly, feeling that his presumption was
almost unwarrantable, but when she met his earnest plea for his friend
first with indifference, and then with undisguised amusement, he found
his anger rising.
"I do not think you can realize Leonard's condition of mind, Miss
Stuart," he said darkly. "If you would only put an end to this once
for all, I am sure that he is man enough to go away from you and try
to live down his disappointment; but he has a peculiarly excitable and
sensitive temperament, and if you continue to torture him in this way,
I fear you will have his death at your door."
"I am sorry to say," she replied lightly, "that our friend is a fool
now," looking up at him with a glance strangely deep and subtle, "if
he were half the man you are----"
"I have nothing further to say," Guy interrupted, flushing with
indignation and disgust, and without another word he abruptly left
her.
Two days later all Baden was shocked by the startling news that young
Nelson Leonard had accidentally shot himself and was lying at the
point of death.
Those melancholy hours of watching by Leonard's bedside, in that
dreary hotel room, lived in Guy's memory. When the doctor's sad
verdict was pronounced, the dying man pleaded to be left alone with
his friend.
"Ah, dear old fellow," he said gently, when they were alone, "pretty
well done--for an accident? Forgive me," he murmured, as he caught a
sharp look of pain in Guy's face. "Forgive----" his voice faltered,
and his head fell wearily back on the pillow.
Then the poor boy's mind wandered, and Lillian Stuart's name was
constantly on his lips. In broken, halting sentences a pitiful story
of deception and disappointment was revealed to Guy--a story which
would be sacred to him to his life's end, and, as he listened, his
whole soul revolted against the woman who had so willfully trifled
with this man's tender, loyal heart. Before morning dawned, Nelson
Leonard's eyes had closed forever on a life which he had found too
difficult for him. When the sad affair was over, Guy would fain have
left Baden at once, but he was obliged to await there the arrival of
Leonard's family from America.
In the days that ensued Lillian Stuart was markedly subdued, but if
she had any suspicion of the real truth concerning Leonard's death she
never betrayed it by word or look. She did all in her power to
overcome Guy's aversion for her, but he sternly repulsed her. To
attempt conciliation was a new rôle for Miss Stuart, and his cold
disregard of all her efforts was the severest wound her vanity had
ever received.
Such a slight is not readily forgiven or forgotten by a woman of her
type. So when Guy Appleton once more crossed her path, and she found,
in his deep love for Helen, his vulnerable point, she felt that her
day of triumph had come.
It had been an easy task to secure Helen's friendship, and then to so
use her influence with the girl as to effect the annulling of the
engagement. Miss Stuart knew Guy's nature well enough to feel almost
sure that, however sorely he might be tempted, he would probably never
betray his knowledge of that unpleasant episode in her past; so,
trading on the man's very uprightness, she revenged herself for the
bitter sting of wounded vanity that rankled in her memory.
Her well-planned scheme had been marvelously successful, but one
unlooked-for element had entered into it; for Helen's simplicity and
purity of nature, her lack of vanity, coquetry, or duplicity, above
all, her entire confidence and trust, had touched a tender chord in
the heart of this cold and worldly woman, and were in themselves a
power so great she felt herself held by them. Could she have foreseen
the future, she would, perhaps, have struggled against this most
disturbing element.
Guy's return to Hetherford with the announcement that his engagement
was at an end, and that he was going immediately abroad, created quite
a ferment among the good people at the manor and Rose Cottage, and
many were their fruitless conjectures as to the cause of Helen's
sudden change of feeling. Across at the parsonage, happy-go-lucky Nan
puckered up her jolly face, pondered long over this vexatious
question, and hit at last upon the correct solution of it, but wisely
kept her own counsel.
Mrs. Appleton took her son's disappointment very much to heart, and
when Helen came home again Rose Cottage was closed and its occupants
once more gone abroad. When the buckboard rolled by the deserted
little place Helen drew her breath sharply, then, catching Jean's
reproachful eyes upon her, began hurriedly to speak of other things.
The Lawrences frankly avowed to her their regret and disappointment,
but not one word of explanation did the girl vouchsafe to them, so
after a little they accepted the inevitable, and Guy's name was no
longer spoken among them.
And thus it was that of the Lawrence girls, Helen alone had the proud
distinction of having had a genuine love affair, the memory of which,
however, was tinged with deep regret, and caused her naught but pain.
Perhaps she felt intuitively that she had done wrong. What was a
pleasant friendship compared to the love of a true man's heart? Yet
the thought of a marriage with Guy was out of the question.
So the foolish girl reasoned. Time brings many changes, however, and
perhaps what once seemed to Helen a catastrophe may one day seem to
open the very gates of Paradise.
And now that we have taken a leaf from Helen's past, let us resume our
way.
CHAPTER IV.
A SAIL ON THE "CYCLONE."
"They have hired the dear old _Cyclone_, Helen, because the men
thought the wind was bound to be light to-day and we would have so
much more sport in a small boat than on the _Vortex_."
Nathalie stood in the doorway, gesticulating eagerly with her slender
brown hands. Her pretty face was quite flushed with excitement, and
her hurried words tripped over each other in their anxiety to be
spoken.
"You see we must make haste, for Dick says we must be at the dock at
eleven, or we won't catch the tide."
"But what about luncheon?" interposed Helen quietly.
A comical expression of dismay crossed Nathalie's face.
"Oh, dear, I suppose you will want to kill us; but Jean and I, in a
sudden fit of enthusiasm, said we would attend to that, and not one
thing have we done yet."
"Did you think to provide any cold meat for sandwiches?" demanded the
young housekeeper.
"Oh, yes; there are three stout chickens, some cold corned beef, and a
'bit of ham bone,' as Bridget puts it, gracing your larder."
"Well, we haven't a moment to spare, so call Jean, and let us get
right to work."
The pile of sandwiches grew rapidly under the girls' deft hands, and
little Larry, wandering in from the veranda, looked longingly at these
interesting preparations.
"Wish I could go with you," he ventured, with sudden courage.
"Don't speak of it," replied Helen emphatically, as she ran out of the
room to get a fresh supply of bread.
"Guess you'll all be drownded, anyway," and Larry eyed them with a
superior and triumphant mien.
"That's right, my cheerful little brother," laughed Jean. "Always look
on the bright side of things."
"Now, when shall we tell Aunt Helen we will be back?" asked Nathalie,
as they were fitting the cover down on the well-filled hamper.
"Not later than five, I should think."
"Don't let's commit ourselves, Helen," suggested Jean. "It is such a
bore, and we will be troubling about it all the afternoon."
"We must be home by five; I am not willing to leave the children any
longer than that."
"Perhaps you can manage the wind to suit your own purposes. You know
it generally plays more or less of a part in sailing," and Jean gave a
vicious tug at the last unfastened strap.
"Don't be impertinent, Jean," Nathalie called out, as she ran swiftly
upstairs. "Never mind, Helen, her youth is her only excuse."
"All the same, we shall be home on time if possible, dearie."
Jean laughed good-humoredly.
"I am always disagreeable," she admitted, "when anyone speaks with
decision. I don't know why, but it sets my teeth on edge."
Dudley met them at the wharf with the cutter from the _Vortex_, and
soon they were pulling swiftly out to the _Cyclone's_ mooring. As they
rounded the stern of the old oyster sloop, a young man was seen
standing at the wheel, his slender figure held firmly erect, one hand
shading his eyes as he scanned the blue waters of the sound.
"Who is that?" whispered Mollie.
"Up oars!" cried Dudley, intent on bringing the cutter up in good
form, and in a moment more they were clambering up the gang-steps, and
Mollie's question went unanswered.
"Hullo, Farr," called Dick cheerfully, and thus addressed, Lieutenant
Farr left the wheel and moved leisurely forward.
"You will have to individualize for yourself, old fellow, for it would
be impossible for me to name all these charming people."
"Time enough," spoke Farr, in a well-modulated voice, as he raised his
cap and glanced at the group before him.
"Come, let us get off," he said, turning abruptly to the men, and soon
the _Cyclone_ was sailing lazily away before a light breeze.
"How delightful!" sighed Eleanor Hill, as she settled herself
comfortably to windward. "This is my idea of bliss."
Farr paused an instant on his way aft and glanced interestedly at the
girl's earnest face, then proceeded to his place at the wheel.
"For pity's sake, let somebody go and talk to that man," said Jean,
dropping her voice.
"I fancy he doesn't care much about it," replied Eleanor quietly.
"You go, Em," Mollie suggested.
"Certainly!" and, nothing daunted, Emily started up.
"Who doubted her willingness?" laughed Nan saucily.
Eleanor shook her head at the speaker.
Dick threw himself down in the midst of the group of girls and kept up
an incessant chatter.
One voice was lacking in the general interchange of nonsense, for
to-day Jean Lawrence, who was usually the merriest of them all, found
her interest flagging strangely. Sitting somewhat apart from the
others, her eyes wandered persistently to where Farr was courteously
and patiently initiating Emily Varian into the art of steering. There
was something about the man that caught her attention and held it
almost against her will. She noted with what an air of distinction his
rough yachting flannels were worn, and how beautifully shaped were the
long slender hands which moved so lazily, yet with such a suggestion
of strength. His cap was drawn down over his face, so that only the
lines of a well-molded mouth and chin were revealed, and Jean found
herself waiting with almost childish interest for a glimpse of the
eyes so tantalizingly hid from view. A sudden shout of boisterous
laughter from Dick brought her sharply to herself, and with a keen
sense of shame, and a passionate hope that her defection might have
passed unnoticed, she turned and plunged into the conversation.
"Let us have some songs, girls," suggested Eleanor. "We are getting
very much demoralized, and I don't know what that strange man will
think of us."
"Oh, if I were a little bird how happy I would be," began Jean, with
more energy than correctness.
"Hold on, Jeanie," interrupted Nathalie, catching up her mandolin,
"the other words have lots more flavor."
"Oh, the first that came a-courting was little Tommy Green,
The finest young man that ever was seen,
But the words of my grandmother ran in my head,
And I would not listen to a word that he said."
"There, that will do, Nathalie," interposed Helen with decision.
"Not at all," cried Jean.
"Says I to myself there must be some mistake,
What a great fuss these old folks make,
If the boys and the girls had all been so afraid,
Why grandma herself would have been an old maid."
Jean sang the foolish words recklessly, and when she had finished shot
a half-defiant glance from under her long lashes in Farr's direction.
His eyes met hers with a long, steady look. Somewhat disconcerted,
Jean flushed hotly and turned hurriedly away.
"That was a daisy, Jean," and Dick roared with laughter.
When the merriment had subsided a little:
"Farr," said Dudley, rising and making his way out of the circle, "I
think you have had your turn at the wheel. Suppose I take your place
for a while."
"I hope you are not very much bored, Mr. Farr," ventured Jean shyly.
"Quite the reverse--much entertained," he replied quietly.
Jean wondered if there were a touch of sarcasm in this reply, but his
face was impenetrable.
"Charming accent he has," smiled Eleanor in an aside to Nan.
"I wonder where he got it, don't you?"
"Have you lived very much abroad, Mr. Farr?" queried Eleanor, turning
politely to him.
"And why do you ask?"
"Why, your accent is so un-American."
A broad smile crossed Dudley's face as he caught Miss Hill's words. It
amused him not a little to hear reticent Farr thus catechized.
"Where are you from?" asked Nathalie, coming to the front in her usual
outspoken fashion.
Farr glanced at her, and then, after an instant's hesitation, answered
languidly.
"From New Jersey."
At this the little group, throwing manners to the winds, burst into
merry laughter.
"Doesn't look a bit like a mosquito," said Nan to Mollie in an audible
whisper.
Poor Mollie looked quite horror-struck, for she felt sure that the
saucy words had reached Farr's ear.
If the man felt any annoyance he was most successful in concealing it,
for his expression remained quite unchanged. Not so with poor Jean,
who had flushed hotly at what she considered Nan's unwarrantable
impertinence. She made a swift, angry little movement, and the book
she had been holding slipped to the deck. Farr leaned forward, and
picked it up. As he returned it to her his eyes met hers with a quiet,
reassuring smile, for he had been quick to notice the girl's silent
championship, and it had greatly touched him. The color in Jean's face
deepened, and with sudden shyness she dropped her eyes.
"Have a cigar, Farr?"
To these two Clifford Archer's question came almost like an
interruption, although no word had been spoken between them.
"No, thanks," taking from his pocket a silver case of curious design,
"but, if no one objects, I will light a cigarette!"
"I can't help it," cried Nathalie, laughing until the tears were in
her eyes, "did you hear the way he said that word 'cigarette,'--with
such a lingering over each syllable? I am sure you are a Spaniard, Mr.
Farr, in spite of New Jersey."
"I knew it," Nan put in, "the moment you spoke."
"Ah," exclaimed Nathalie, drawing back in mock affright, "you are an
exile."
"How interesting," spoke Nan. "Do tell us all about it."
"About what?" queried Farr coolly, and Nan subsided, feeling suddenly
very much embarrassed.
Eleanor Hill caught an expression half impatient in Farr's eyes, and
turned warningly to Nathalie.
"You will be sorry."
"When I'm sober," interrupted the young girl merrily.
"What a rowdy you are, Nat; Helen is looking at you most
disapprovingly."
A shrug of the shoulders was Nathalie's only answer, and starting up
she crossed over, and stood before Farr, where he sat at Jean's side.
"You have been very good and patient," she assured him with a
mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes, "and now I am going to reward
you by unpacking the luncheon hamper."
"That's a good idea," cried Dick; "I am almost starved to death."
"What delicious salad," exclaimed Churchill a few moments later, as
they sat about the open hamper. "Miss Helen, you are a culinary
artist."
Helen smiled her thanks.
"May I not sit by you, Eleanor," pleaded Clifford Archer, dropping
down on the deck at her side. "With you near me I could never know
hunger or thirst."
"Nonsense," frowning on him in seeming disapproval. "I think your
appetite is one which stands you in good stead."
He was a handsome youth, graceful in the extreme. It was a constant
source of annoyance to Eleanor Hill that she found him so charming,
for, she often assured herself, there was nothing to the boy but his
good looks and perfect manners. But who will dare to say that these
are nothing?
"I do hope there are plenty of sandwiches," sighed Nan, as she sat
eating her fourth.
Dick tipped up the plate, depositing a dozen or more in her lap.
"That enough?" he asked innocently.
"You idiot!" cried Nan.
"Do say something new, Nan," called Mollie from the other side of the
boat. "That is the third time to-day you have given Dick that
appellation."
"How can I help it," groaned Nan, "when it characterizes him so
perfectly?"
"You can't," said Nathalie consolingly, "and if I were you I would not
attempt to."
Dick looked at both girls with withering scorn, then glanced by them
as if their existence were a matter of small import.
"Helen, can I open the beer and ginger ale now?"
"If it will be any comfort to you, Dick, you have my consent."
"I think I will try another sandwich, if Miss Birdsall can spare me
one."
"Then catch, Mr. Farr," and Nathalie tossed him one, with unerring
aim.
"O Nathalie," protested Jean, with changing color.
"Well, I am glad to know he is not a muff," said Nathalie, as Farr
caught the sandwich. "What is the matter, Jean? I didn't know you were
so easily shocked."
"Look out for the boom," called Dudley most opportunely, and the
_Cyclone_ came swiftly about.
"What an unfortunate move. Now the sun is right in our eyes," and Jean
looked up at Farr appealingly. "Won't you please have it removed?"
"Why, certainly. Are not your wishes my law?" and even as he spoke the
sun slipped under a cloud.
"What a wonderful man," Eleanor Hill laughed softly.
The afternoon sped away all too rapidly, and the hours were as minutes
to the happy young people skimming the waters of the beautiful sound.
Nature was at her very best this sunshiny summer afternoon. Light
fleecy clouds scudded swiftly across the delicious blue of the vaulted
sky above, and in the distance the low, far-stretching, Long Island
shore was bathed in a soft, violet haze, broken here and there by
patches of white, glistening sand.
The _Cyclone_, with every yard of canvas set, was running gayly before
the breeze, which since noon had grown strong and steady. The swash of
the water against the boat, the slight straining and creaking of the
rigging, the sighing of the wind in the sails, were sounds sweet as
music to the ear of every true lover of the sea.
And now the summer day began to wane, and in the western sky the sun
was shining with a brilliant radiance.
"Ah!" sighed Jean softly, as they dropped anchor in Hetherford Harbor,
"why do all pleasant things come to an end?"
"But they invariably do," and there was a touch of genuine regret in
Farr's voice, which was quite sincere; for in this last pleasant hour,
he had thoroughly enjoyed a delightful _tête-à-tête_ with his pretty
companion, and had every reason, in spite of the merry chaffing of
these gay young strangers, to vote the day a great success.
CHAPTER V.
SUNSET-HOUR ON THE CLIFFS.
The following morning the girls were collected together in the upper
balcony of the manor, where the clustering vines afforded a welcome
shelter from the sun's hot rays. A wicker table, laden down with books
and work baskets, occupied a central position, and the low rockers
which surrounded it were tilted swiftly back and forth as the girls
worked and chatted in an easy, desultory way. On the wide
old-fashioned settle in the background sat Eleanor Hill and Nan
Birdsall; Eleanor lounging lazily back among the cushions, her hands
resting idly in her lap, Nan all curled up in a heap, her sketchbook
on her knee, her deft fingers making rapid strokes with a long,
well-sharpened pencil.
"Do you know," spoke Eleanor Hill, "I fear we behaved very badly
yesterday. I have had qualms of conscience ever since, and a growing
conviction that we made perfect fools of ourselves in the eyes of
those two strange men."
"Better that than dullards," laughed Nan lightly.
"Hobson's choice," said Jean dryly.
Just then Helen, with a somewhat preoccupied air, pushed back her
chair and passed into the house, her mind evidently intent on some
domestic question. Nathalie's eyes followed the retreating figure,
until it was quite lost from view in the shadowy hallway, and then
were bent thoughtfully on her work again.
"To change the subject, girls," she began, after a moment, devoting
herself energetically to the threading of her needle, and tossing her
head impatiently at every unsuccessful effort; "have you heard the
news? Helen's friend, Miss Stuart, is coming down upon us for a
visit."
"Yes, indeed we have." Emily's sigh came from the depths of her heart.
"I can't imagine what we will do with another girl here."
"What she will do with us may be more to the point," and Jean raised
her eyebrows expressively. "I don't know how it is, but I am
apprehensive about this visit. I suppose," with a sort of honest
protest in her voice, "that I have never really liked Miss Stuart."
"Nor I," agreed Nathalie. "There is something about her that I do not
trust. And the worst of it is," with a grimace, "that she winds Helen
around her little finger. It always makes me so angry."
"Nonsense, Nat. You do Helen an injustice," objected Eleanor
pleasantly. "However, I frankly confess to a fear that the harmony of
our own little circle will be somewhat marred by the advent of a
stranger."
"That's so, and then you know she is such a swell that she will
probably look down upon us poor country girls with the utmost scorn,"
and Nathalie gave a vindictive tug at her knotted thread.
"Of course she is devoted to men?" queried Emily lugubriously.
"Oh, I should judge so, although I have never seen her with them. You
know she has only stopped with us in the winter season, when we have
been alone."
"Let us do her the justice to suppose that the men are equally devoted
to her," added Jean generously.
"It amounts to about the same thing, whether she is devoted to men, or
they to her," and there was in Emily's tone such a note of tragic
melancholy that the girls could not refrain from laughing.
"Oh, what a happy nook and cranny of the great world this dear old
Hetherford is," cried Eleanor, clasping her hands behind her head, and
looking out with dreamy eyes over the sweep of softly undulating lawn
that stretched away toward the manor gates. "It all seems so idyllic
to me. There is so much petty jealousy and miserable heartburning
beyond the confines of this little haven of rest. People's motives are
so often selfish that one grows strangely doubting, even of one's
friends. Do you know," leaning forward impulsively and speaking with
deeper earnestness, "I think we girls have found the secret of true
friendship--mutual trust and respect. These are what have made our
long intercourse such a happy one."
"Indeed you are right, Eleanor, dear," Jean replied gently.
"The bother of it all will be," interrupted Nathalie following out her
own train of thought "that Mademoiselle will come here with trunks
full of fine clothes, and we will be obliged to dress up."
"I would like to see the girl who could make me discard my shirt and
blazer," laughed Nan defiantly.
"How would we look _en grande toilette_ with such hands as these,"
said Jean, thrusting forward her own little brown ones.
"Attractive, but from a different standpoint," Nan asserted with a
fine assumption of authority. "Everything depends upon your point of
view, according to Henry James. Now, from my artistic pinnacle,"
tilting her head to one side, and surveying the group with critical,
but approving eyes, "I declare I prefer brown hands to white ones."
"By the way," asked Jean, with well-feigned indifference, "what did
you think of the naval officers?"
"To return to our muttons," murmured Nathalie, with a sidelong glance
at her sister.
"Mr. Dudley was very pleasant and agreeable," replied Emily, "but I
thought Mr. Farr rather uninteresting."
"Well," laughed Eleanor demurely, "Nan is right. Everything does
depend upon one's point of view. Now I thought Mr. Farr decidedly
attractive, and Mr. Dudley just a good-natured boy."
"That reminds me of something I saw in the paper the other day," Jean
observed smilingly. "To the question 'What is taste?' the answer was
given, 'There is no such thing, except on the principle that some
people haven't any.'"
"That is a fine way of disposing of one," and there was an expression
of quiet amusement in Eleanor's eyes. "Never mind, dear," leaning
forward and pinching Jean's cheek, "I will forgive you. Besides,"
dropping her voice, "you know that you agree with me."
"Now, what are you girls whispering about?" complained Nathalie. "Oh,
bother this sewing," she went on irrelevantly; "I have had enough of
it for to-day," and the bit of work was tossed impatiently into her
basket.
This was the signal for a general uprising, and then, as they were
dispersing, Nathalie made the announcement:
"Helen has asked Mr. Dudley and Mr. Farr to dinner to-morrow night."
"Yes," answered Mollie, turning back from the open doorway, "and
Captain Dodd and his wife, too. Dick says," with an air of profound
conviction, "that they are delightful."
"That settles it," laughed Nan, "Dick can't be wrong. Come on, Moll,"
linking her arm in Mollie's, "I am going to take you home to luncheon
with me to-day."
It was late that afternoon when Jean, who had been reading for hours
on the quiet veranda, suddenly jumped to her feet, with a little sigh
of weariness, and tossed her book into a neighboring chair. She was
tired of sitting still so long and felt in the humor for a walk.
Slowly she made her way down the broad steps and across the grounds of
the manor. Strolling on in a reverie, and heeding but little in which
way her steps were taking her, she came upon the great iron gates
which opened out into the roadway. Passing through them she wandered
listlessly on toward the water.
It was the loveliest hour of the bright, sunny June day. Already the
shadows were lengthening, and a little whiff of cooler air was
stirring after the warmth of the noonday. The sun was nearing the
western horizon, now shining out in bright radiance, now obscured by
some light passing cloud. The murmur of a little brook which followed
the roadside, and the whispering of the wind among the leaves, made a
soft music. Now and then a bird darted by overhead, singing out a
shrill note in some high key, then dropping into a soft coo. A
squirrel ran out from the thicket, sped across the road, and
disappeared over a low stone wall.
"Oh, you foolish little chap," exclaimed Jean, half-aloud, as Master
Squirrel gave her one glance from his bright eyes, before dropping out
of sight. "You are the swiftest little fellow I have ever seen."
It was growing rough and heavy underfoot now, and in a moment more
Jean had reached the beach, and was strolling down toward the cliffs.
The water was alive with boats, their white sails glimmering in the
sunlight, as the dying breeze bore them slowly on their way.
At the foot of the cliffs Jean paused a moment. The glory of the
golden light fell on her slender, girlish figure, and illumined her
wistful, upturned face. As her eyes rested lovingly on the beautiful
scene that lay before her a deep sigh of pleasure escaped her slightly
parted lips, for to-day the old familiar sights and sounds seemed
strangely new and sweet. A narrow beaten track led temptingly to the
summit of the cliffs whence a magnificent view could be obtained, and
after an instant's hesitation she began the steep ascent. Turning the
corner of a sharp rock, which reared itself boldly into the air, she
came suddenly to a standstill, uttering a stifled exclamation, for
almost at her feet, stretched at full length in a sheltered cranny of
the rocks, lay Valentine Farr, his hat drawn down over his forehead,
his eyes thoughtfully intent upon the distant horizon. As Jean's
exclamation reached him, he glanced quickly up and sprang to his feet.
"Why, Miss Lawrence, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure. You stole
a march on me. I did not hear your approach at all."
"Indeed, I am equally surprised, Mr. Farr, and I assure you you really
startled me. I came upon you, so suddenly."
Farr's eyes rested admiringly on the soft color in the girl's face as
she went on:
"And may I ask how you hit upon my particular retreat in these rocks?
Let me warn you. You can only make yourself happy in it with my
especial permission."
"I had no idea I was trespassing. Pardon my curiosity, but by what
right do you hold your title to this spot?" he queried with an amused
smile.
"By the right of priority. Do you know of any better, Mr. Farr?" with
a pretty air of defiance. "When I was a little girl in pinafores I
played here with my doll; when I was a schoolgirl I studied my lessons
in this dear spot; and now that I am a grown woman," drawing herself
up to her full height, and glancing at him merrily, "I come here to
read, to ponder, and to think."
"A sacred spot indeed," spoke Farr laughingly, but with just a little
lowering of his voice. "I yield at once, for I see that no one could
dispute your right."
"No one." She threw out her hand with a pretty gracious gesture. "But
won't you let me extend to you an invitation to occupy it whenever you
feel inclined?"
"Thanks, ever so much," he rejoined heartily, "You are very good. And
now, can't I persuade you to rest a little after your climb, Miss
Lawrence?"
She slipped down on the rocks, and he threw himself at her side.
"What delightful times you all seem to have here," he went on. "Do you
know I think this is a most charming place, quite an Elysium." Jean's
soft eyes lighted up with pleasure.
"I am so glad you like it, but I fear you will find very little to
interest you in so sleepy a place."
Farr was about to make answer in words of conventional flattery, but
something in the girl's tone of sincerity and good faith deterred him
and impelled him to reply in kind.
"But I assure you I am delighted with it. You know we knock about a
good deal, and some of our stations are almost unendurable. We have
been on the Sound for several months now, and this is to me by far the
pleasantest place in which we have cast anchor."
"It does my heart good to hear you say that," she rejoined naïvely,
"for naturally Hetherford is very dear to us."
"You have lived here all your life, Miss Lawrence?"
"Ever since I was a wee little girl. Of course we have been away from
time to time, but we are always glad to get back again."
"I can well understand your feeling so, although I have had very
little of home life myself." Farr sighed as he uttered these last
words.
Jean looked at him with gentle sympathy. "You say that sadly," she
said.
"Do I?" He turned on his elbow, and his grave eyes met hers. His next
words were prompted by a sudden unwonted impulse. "Perhaps I will tell
you about it some day."
Then a silence fell between them.
The sweet stillness held its sway o'er land and sea, its perfect
harmony emphasized by the soft lapping of the waves against the
shadowy sands below. The breeze was dying with the dying sun. Just off
the shore a little white-sailed cat-boat was drifting in with the
flowing tide.
Jean drew a long breath and started swiftly to her feet.
"Why, how late it is growing," she exclaimed. "I must be going, Mr.
Farr."
"Already?" he said, and then they made their way down the rugged
cliff.
"Take care, Miss Lawrence," he cried, as she missed her footing and
slipped a little. "Please let me assist you," and he extended his
hand.
Jean put her hand in his with a demure uplifting of her eyebrows, and
just a fleeting smile on her lips. There flashed through her mind the
thought:
"How unmercifully Nan would chaff me, if she could catch a glimpse of
me now."
The descent was a brief one, and soon they had crossed the sands and
were strolling along the road in the direction of the manor.
"You are coming to dine with us to-morrow night, are you not, Mr.
Farr?"
"Your sister was good enough to ask us, and I shall be only too
delighted to avail myself of her kind invitation."
"I really will not let you come any further with me," she declared as
they reached the manor gates. "I fear, as it is, I have taken you very
much out of your way, and it must be late."
"It is close upon seven," he told her after looking at his watch. "And
you dine?"
"At seven, and let me warn you now that to be late is to meet with my
sister's ire."
"I shall remember," he answered, with his pleasant laugh. "And now can
I not see you to your door?"
"No, indeed. I must hurry away," she said as they shook hands, "for
time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man. Good-by."
"Until to-morrow," he said, as he turned away.
CHAPTER VI.
A DINNER AT THE MANOR.
It was the evening of the dinner given in honor of the naval officers,
and even as the old Dutch clock in the corner of the manor hall struck
the hour of seven, Farr was shaking hands with Mrs. Dennis.
"I am so sorry," she said to him with a sweet smile, "that I shall be
obliged to absent myself from the dinner table to-night, but my
strength is not very great and I dare not overtax it. My niece Helen,"
with a proud accent, which was not lost upon Farr, "has taken my place
for so long that I feel no hesitation in leaving everything in her
hands."
"Oh, Auntie," cried Helen, with shy deprecation, "Mr. Farr will begin
to think me that most tiresome of all things, a paragon of household
virtue."
Farr made a gesture of dissent, and then as Clifford Archer presented
himself, he turned and followed Helen with admiring eyes. Very fair
and womanly she seemed to him, in her gown of pale lavender crepe,
moving about among her guests, greeting one and all with gentle
courtesy.
His gaze wandered on to where, in a further corner of the
drawing-room, Nathalie was keeping up a merry chatter with Wendell
Churchill. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked a very child
to-night, in her white mulle gown, with a broad white sash around her
waist, and one red rose in her brown hair. A spoiled child, too, she
undeniably was; unused to restraint, somewhat willful and
quick-tempered, but with a heart so true and generous that one could
always trust this small maiden and know that the good would
predominate.
Eleanor Hill, standing very erect, her slender figure clad in a
severely simple gown of India silk, her hair brushed straight from her
fair face, her blue eyes alight with intelligence, her sensitive mouth
revealing every passing shade of feeling, held his attention for a
moment, for there was something patrician in the girl's mien and
bearing which greatly charmed him.
Involuntarily Farr smiled as he caught sight of Nan's jolly face
beaming with an unending fund of good humor, and he was man enough of
the world for one glance at dainty Mollie Andrews to suffice to tell
him that she was an adept in the truly feminine art of dressing, for
her white gown, covered with lace and embroidery, was made in a
mysterious Parisian fashion, not easily imitated.
What an arrant little flirt was dark-eyed Emily Varian. The smile that
Nan had evoked deepened as Farr noted the rapt expression on Dudley's
face as he bent over her. Her yellow gown, while not as modish as
Eleanor's and Mollie's, nor as artistic as the Lawrence girls', yet
showed a fine sense of color, and lighted up her pretty, piquant face,
which was surmounted by a smooth coil of hair the color of a raven's
wing.
They were an unusually lovely group of girls, and, beyond this,
unusually pure-hearted and intelligent. Farr appreciated this the more
keenly, perhaps, in that he had seen much of the world in his thirty
years of life. Sometimes the old ideals of his boyhood had suffered
sadly; but his faith in the gentler sex was too deep-rooted to be
easily dispelled, and now all that was noblest and most chivalrous in
his nature was awakened by the atmosphere of honesty and sweetness
surrounding him.
He was brought back to the starting-point of his observations by
Helen's voice saying, apologetically:
"I am so sorry my sister is so late," and even as she spoke a little
hand pushed the portières hastily aside, and Jean stood in the
doorway.
She glanced impulsively across at Farr, and caught a wicked gleam from
his eyes as he advanced to meet her.
"'Time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man,'" he quoted
maliciously.
"That is one advantage in being a woman," she promptly retorted.
She was radiant to-night in a gown of silver and blue. From under
level brows her eyes shone like stars, and some slight inward tremor
of excitement flushed her sweet face with unusual color. Her soft
yellow hair was gathered up in a simple coil, little tendrils of it
curling upon her forehead and on her neck.
"What a bonny little lass she is," thought Farr, surprised by the
sudden feeling of tenderness which took possession of him.
Then dinner was announced, and, with a half cynical smile at his own
susceptibility, he pulled himself together, and offered her his arm.
"Why, I am quite in the navy, am I not?" she asked archly, as she took
her place between Farr and Dudley.
"You honor it," Farr returned.
Jean's brows contracted with a slight frown. "That savors of flattery,
Mr. Farr."
"I especially dislike your accusation, Miss Lawrence."
"Then I must be more careful not to run counter to your prejudices
hereafter."
"If you would be so good," he said to her dryly; then their eyes met,
and they both laughed light-heartedly.
"I hope you enjoyed the sail the other day. I meant to ask you about
it yesterday afternoon."
"Thoroughly. Your songs were particularly delightful."
Jean blushed, and answered in some confusion:
"They were very foolish. I really hope you will forgive our absurd
behavior."
"Charming folly needs no apology," Jean found the glance he gave her a
trifle disconcerting.
"But pray, Mr. Farr, do not----" she began, and hesitated.
"Do not what?" he interrogated, with a faint show of eagerness.
"Do not allow your soup to grow cold," she finished, with a merry
glance at him from under her long lashes.
"While you are in Hetherford," spoke Nathalie across the table to
Dudley, "you should make a point of going up to the cemetery. There
are some epitaphs there a hundred years old, and they are so funny."
"So Andrews was telling us. Speaking of epitaphs I was very much
amused by one I saw in a magazine the other day. Let me see. How was
it?
"Here lies the body of Mary Ann,
With her head on the bosom of Abraham;
Pretty soft thing for Mary Ann,
But very hard lines on Abraham."
"Here is a good one," cried Dick, when he had partially recovered from
his ebullition of mirth:
"Here lies the body of Mary Bin,
Who having had her little fling,
Burst this outer shell of sin,
And hatched herself a cherubim."
Helen shook her head at Dick in gentle protest.
"What will Captain and Mrs. Dodd think of us." she said.
"Suppose I should recall one to you all," suggested the captain, with
a merry twinkle in his eye.
"Please do," they cried in chorus.
"He heard the angels calling him,
From that celestial shore,
He flapped his wings and away he went,
To make one angel more."
"Splendid," exclaimed Nathalie, with enthusiasm. "Mr. Dudley and Dick
are quite in the background."
"Dick saw his in that charming novel 'Comin' thro' the Rye.'"
"Guess I did, Nancy. By Jove, girls," he whispered mischievously, "you
are all stunning to-night," and he drew himself up with an air of
pride and satisfaction.
"You shine in a kind of reflected glory; don't you, Dick?" laughed
Nathalie.
After dinner they gathered about the great wood fire burning cheerily
in the drawing-room. The evening had grown suddenly chill. The wind
had veered to the southeast, and the strong sea breeze lowered the
temperature by many degrees; a not uncommon occurrence in our American
summers.
Helen seated herself at the open piano, and her music did much to
enhance the charm of the hour. She felt a bit sad to-night and
something of her feeling crept into her music, as she drifted into a
plaintive melody, with an oft-recurring refrain almost like a spoken
regret. As her eyes wandered about the fire-lit room, with its far-off
corners half in mystic shadow, there were awakened within her memories
of happy childhood days when the love of her father and mother had
been the sunshine of their home. Interwoven with these thoughts came
the recollection of one who, in those days, had been near at hand and
who was now far away, in strange lands, separated from her by more
than the mere expanse of restless waters.
She sighed a little and, bringing her music abruptly to an end, rose
and crossed the room. After a few words of courteous explanation to
Mrs. Dodd, she ran away upstairs to assure herself that the children
were safely in bed.
Just as she was passing through the doorway, she caught a glimpse of
Jean, who, with earnest upturned face, was talking interestedly with
Farr, and something she saw in her sister's blue eyes made her start.
What was there in that upturned face, in those eyes, which made Helen
feel so strangely, as if something were going to happen?
And Eleanor Hill chatting gayly with Cliff Archer found her thoughts
traveling in much the same direction.
In all these summers they had been a very happy little colony of
girls, and they had entered into a sort of compact in true girl
fashion that no lover should be allowed in their midst, to break the
spell. Helen had been engaged, but that relation had existed previous
to the making of the bond, and she had been so little absorbed that no
one had thought much about it. One other exception had to be made, for
there was no use in trying to hold Emily strictly to any such
agreement, for flirt she would whenever the opportunity offered.
However, her digressions had been few and far between, for Cliff
Archer and Dick were almost the only men who came to Hetherford, and
they were so like brothers to her that a sentimental attitude toward
either of them would have seemed supremely ridiculous.
So this summer had come around as many others had before, and already
a new element had entered into their midst, and that naughty little
Nathalie was at the root of the matter; for ever since one bright day
in May, when the _Sylph_ had come sailing along these pleasant waters
and Wendell Churchill had called at the manor to pay his respects, the
old order of things had been changed. Until that day the _Sylph_ had
been better known to Hetherford than her good-looking owner; for
rarely had he cast anchor in the harbor without having aboard his
yacht a party of gay and fashionable people, who urgently claimed his
whole attention. But now he no longer brought strangers to Hetherford,
and when, as now and then occurred, he was obliged to absent himself
for a few days, the _Sylph_ lay at the disposal of the girls. And all
this that little minx Nathalie had brought about, laughing while she
disclaimed emphatically any disloyalty to the vows of their bond.
The worst of it was the mischief was spreading, and Eleanor's eyes
falling just then upon Jean, she experienced a sense of keen
annoyance, for warm-hearted Jean had been the most whole-souled, the
most valiant of them all. It was a great pity that the _Vortex_ had
been stationed here, and doubly a pity that there was no immediate
prospect of her departure. It would not do to be introducing all sorts
of folly into their circle.
Eleanor had quite worked herself up to a pitch of righteous
indignation when, on surveying the ground that had brought her to this
point, she became uncomfortably conscious of some slight changes
within herself; for here before her, looking into her eyes and saying
all sorts of pretty things, which of course were nonsensical, was the
"fatal beauty" whom she had always looked upon as a boy. Half-vexed,
half-amused she rose to go, and when Cliff, after helping her with
her coat, gently pressed her hand, she felt immensely like boxing his
ears. It was idiotic and sentimental, his looking at her in that way,
and there was no occasion whatever for his saying good-night like a
lover in a play.
There was quite a little excitement and bustle of departure in the
hall-way, as coats and cloaks were sought for, found, and donned. Jean
stood by the large open fireplace, where a log lay smoldering, its red
ashes still giving out a grateful heat, and at her side was Farr, hat
in hand, a light summer overcoat on his arm. He spoke a few words to
her as he took her hand in parting, and she looked up at him smiling
and defiant. The girl's blue eyes were dark with unwonted excitement,
her cheeks flushed with bright color, and Eleanor noted all this and
found her impressions of the evening deepened.
When the last guest had gone, Helen dropped down on the foot of the
stairs.
"Oh, how tired I am," she exclaimed. "Do put out the lamps in the
drawing-room, Nat, like a good girl." Then she rose to her feet with a
little sigh of weariness. "I think I am sleepy too," she said.
"I wish I were," spoke Jean from before the fire, her whole expression
eminently wide-awake.
"Come to bed, Jeanie," laughed Helen, "and court sleep. Perhaps it
will come to you if you do."
Jean paused a moment by the hall table to select one from out of the
mass of books and magazines collected there, and then followed Helen
up the stairs.
When she had reached her room she threw herself down in an easy-chair
and opened her book.
"You won't mind if I read for a while, will you, Nat? There is no use
of thinking of going to sleep yet."
Nathalie whistled very softly, at which Jean glanced swiftly up at
her.
"Eh, Jean? Love at first sight?"
Jean blushed to the roots of her pretty hair, and there was an angry
light in her eyes.
"I wouldn't be a goose if I were you, Nathalie," she said scornfully.
CHAPTER VII.
A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.
It was Sunday and Nan and Emily were sitting together on the
vine-covered porch of the parsonage, trying to while away the long
hour between church time and the midday dinner.
Nan gave a prodigious yawn, and stretched herself out in the
comfortable steamer chair.
"Oh, dearie me," she sighed, "I wonder if it would be a crime for me
to admit how bored I was in church this morning."
"Well, I don't think it would be in very good taste, considering your
father preached," replied Emily severely.
"I can't help it if he did. I was tired, and moreover," crossly, "I am
always bored."
Emily raised her eyebrows.
"I am afraid, Nan, your soul longs for Gregorian chants and tapering
candles."
"Of course it does; and acolytes, incense, and embroidered altar
cloths. Yes, I admit it frankly, I should have belonged to The
Church," she ended, with great emphasis.
"I know, Em," she continued, after waiting a moment to observe the
effect of her last words, "you will think it absurd; but, I tell you,
I really envy the Lawrence girls. To think that they attend that
dear, delightful Episcopal chapel, while I----" and the sentence ended
with a laugh. "Why, Em, of course you won't sympathize with me, but I
do think it is bad form."
Emily looked really shocked.
"Nan Birdsall, I am ashamed of you. What would uncle think of you?"
"Well," replied Nan, with a perverse expression on her face, "I don't
intend that the ministers' sons shall have it all their own way. I
have just as good a right to live up to the old saying as any of
them."
Emily would not stay to listen to another word, and with a great air
of dignity, she arose, and swept into the house. Very soon the soft
tinkling of a bell told Nan that the noonday meal was ready. Old Mr.
Birdsall stood at one end of the table, his hands folded on the back
of the chair before him, waiting for Emily and Nan to appear. When
they were come the long grace was spoken slowly and impressively, and
no one watching Nan's demure face would have guessed at her outbreak
of the morning.
They were a somewhat incongruous trio, and what little conversation
there was consisted chiefly of good-natured banter of Emily by the
irrepressible Nan, to which Mr. Birdsall listened somewhat
abstractedly.
The dinner hour had not as yet assumed a position of importance to
either of the girls, and as soon as possible they pushed back their
chairs, and once more sought the shady porch. Emily gave one furtive
glance over her shoulder to assure herself that her uncle was not
following them, and then picked up a novel from a neighboring table,
and opened it with a great show of interest. Nan watched the bit of
deception, and a smile spread itself over her face.
"Puss," she cried, stooping to lift up a little white kitten which was
brushing against her skirt, "it is now our turn to be shocked and
horrified."
Her remark being received in contemptuous silence, for a while she
played languidly with the little creature in her lap, then her hand
dropped at her side, her head fell back against the cushions, and Nan
was fast asleep. The air was heavy and drowsy, all about the insects
hummed so lazily and the very atmosphere lulled one into
forgetfulness. By and by, the crunching sound of footsteps on the
graveled path roused Nan to sudden consciousness.
"Oh! dear, Nan," Emily was whispering in a tone of suppressed
excitement, "please wake up. Here comes Mr. Dudley. I forgot to tell
you that I was going for a walk with him."
"That's all right," Nan interrupted her sleepily. "I am going in so he
won't see me," and lifting herself lazily from her chair, she slipped
into the house through one of the French windows.
Within the house there reigned the solemn stillness of the Day of
Rest. The door of the study stood part-way open, and Nan could see her
father lying on his lounge, his white head shining like silver against
the dark leather of the cushion. She stole in on tip-toe to avoid
awakening him, caught up a bright-colored afghan and threw it over
him.
"How sweet he looks," she thought with great tenderness, as she
stooped and gently kissed him. She paused a moment by the large
writing table to find, amid a litter of papers, an old hymnbook,
shabby from long usage, and opening it marked the hymns selected for
the evening service. Then she passed out and closed the door softly
behind her. She waited a few moments until she heard Emily and Mr.
Dudley leave the porch, then put on her hat, and started across the
lawn to the manor. Coming out upon the drive-way she met Helen walking
briskly along.
"Well," she cried, "where are you going?"
"To evening prayers, Nancy. Won't you come with me?"
"Yes, indeed I will. I thought you never left the children Sunday
afternoon."
"I don't usually, but to-day I felt just in the humor for church."
There was a note of sadness in Helen's tone, which ordinarily Nan
would have readily detected, but to-day the girl was possessed by a
sense of personal dissatisfaction and restlessness, and so, absorbed
in her own mood, this was lost upon her. There was a pause of brief
duration, then Helen drew a long breath, and resumed more lightly:
"How sweet and sunny it is, isn't it, Nan? I love these first early
days of summer when everything is so fresh and green. The country
doesn't begin to look so lovely later in the season."
"I suppose so," returned Nan laconically. "I am such a country girl
that I don't half see the beauties about me. When you are so used to
things I don't think you are apt to be so keenly alive to them."
"I dare say that is true; you see I go away just enough to appreciate
this dear place when I come back to it."
"While I," grumbled Nan, "have never been away from Hetherford but two
or three times in my whole life. One year is just like another. There
is always father, deeply interested in church matters, and looking
upon me as an enigma; and cross old Bridget who runs the house and
disapproves of me. I often long to dance a jig before father and to
throw something at Bridget's head, just to relieve the monotony."
Helen laughed softly as Nan's grievances multiplied, knowing full well
how it diminishes one's annoyances to be able to give voice to them.
"Then Emily comes," continued Nan, with a scowl, "and tells me that my
clothes are awful and that I look like a fright, and wonders why I
can't cultivate a slight interest in men. I tell her," laughing
dubiously, "that I would if I found them eager to do their share."
"You silly child," and Helen squeezed Nan's arm affectionately. "I
won't have you depreciate your dear self."
But Nan was not to be so easily diverted.
"I do hope that some day I shall see something of the world," she
replied. "I would like to lead an exciting life, full of incident and
adventure, and oh, dear me, who could lead one less so. I wish
something new and interesting would happen."
"O Nancy," Helen said to her gravely, "don't be so anxious to have
things happen. It is so much better when they don't, little girl."
Nan looked up at Helen and felt rebuked for her egotism, as she saw
the shadow clouding her friend's pale face.
Dissimilar as these two girls were in character, a very warm
friendship existed between them. Helen dearly loved Nan for her ready
wit, easy-going ways, warm heart, and sunny nature, and Nan simply
adored Helen, looking up to her with the greatest admiration, and
deferring readily to her judgment in all things. There was a very
romantic side to Nan's nature, hidden away though it was, beneath so
much nonsense and jollity, and Helen's love affair and its sad ending
had touched her keenly. She thoroughly liked Guy, and he, on his part,
had always shown a preference for her above the other girls. Perhaps
he had guessed at her strong love for Helen and partisanship for
himself, for to her alone had he spoken of Helen on his return from
that last unhappy interview. His words had been few, but Nan had seen
the real grief in his honest eyes, and her heart had ached for him.
She made a pretty shrewd guess at the real state of affairs, and she
found her firm belief, that Helen's heart belonged to Guy and that it
would all come out right in the end, greatly strengthened by her
friend's present unhappiness and discontent. To-day she was full of
sympathy for Helen, but she respected her reticence too deeply to
broach the subject, so she consoled herself with the thought that this
mood scored a point in Guy's favor. Her reverie was broken in upon by
Helen's voice saying gently:
"I consider it a most fortunate thing, Nan, that I am carrying you off
to church; I am sure the service will do us both good."
"Well, there's room for improvement in me," laughed Nan. "You should
have seen Em's face this morning when I told her that my one ambition
was to imitate the proverbial minister's son."
"Nancy, I am ashamed of you," Helen remonstrated, with a reluctant
smile. "Come, be a good girl, for we are just at the church door. Let
us give our hearts and minds to the service," she added with sweet
gravity, "and we will see how much peace will come to us."
"I will, dear," Nan whispered as they started up the aisle to the
Lawrences' pew.
The rector of St. Andrew's leaned somewhat toward ritualism, and no
form nor observance that to his mind lent beauty and solemnity to the
service was omitted. As the girls took their places the solemn chords
of the Stabat Mater inclined their hearts to reverential prayer. In a
moment more the doors of the vestry swung open and the organ took up
the sweet strains of the soul-inspiring hymn, "Hark, hark, my soul."
Slowly the choristers filed by; first the cross-bearer, his young face
full of dignity, then the singers, two by two, and as their numbers
swelled their fresh young voices filled the church.
The grace and beauty of the Episcopal form of worship appealed to Nan.
The rhythmic lines of the confessional, "We have erred and strayed
from Thy ways like lost sheep," etc., moved her to a heartfelt
penitence for her shortcomings, and inspired her with an earnest
desire to live more nobly and unselfishly. One by one her petty trials
took their flight, and only a sense of great peace remained. When the
benediction had been pronounced and the girls had left the church,
they were both somewhat subdued and silent. The slanting rays of the
sun fell softly athwart the quaint old churchyard, and on the faintly
stirring breeze was borne the sweet perfume of roses and honeysuckle
which grew in such profusion against the low stone wall. Passing
through the gateway they strolled side by side along the road.
"I wish I could always attend St. Andrew's," mused Nan, slipping her
hand within Helen's arm. "I really believe I would be a better girl.
The ritual impresses me so deeply, and seems to bring religion home to
me in such a convincing sort of way."
"I don't think that is at all unnatural; but as time goes on, Nan, I
believe you will find that your love for outside things will diminish,
in proportion as your dependence upon what is deep and vital grows."
"I would not fret about it in the least if it were not for my dear
father," and Nan's face grew tender as she spoke, "but I know that
this disposition of mine toward forms and symbols is a source of
sorrow to him. He would have me a strong adherent to the old school of
Presbyterianism, and he feels that my tendencies are leading me
rapidly along the highway to Rome," and Nan's puzzled eyes met Helen's
with a frank appeal for advice.
Helen was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly and
meditatively.
"Of course, Nan, each person has to decide such a question for
himself, but it seems to me that when two people love each other
dearly yet differ in their views, each should be willing to make some
concessions and thus grow more generous and lenient with each
other--Love is such a great power."
"Indeed it is," cried big-hearted Nan, "and I know that the larger
share of yielding should be mine, for dear father has grown old in his
opinions, and it must be very hard for him to have me branch out for
myself."
They had reached a turn in the road where their paths diverged, and
Nan asked:
"You will come over and sing hymns this evening, won't you, Helen?"
"Certainly. Are they coming over from the inn?"
"I suppose so," and then with a friendly nod each went on her way.
It was close upon eight o'clock that evening when Helen and Nathalie
started out for the parsonage. The lovely twilight hour was almost
over. High in the heavens rode the crescent moon, and, as the slowly
fading daylight vanished, its white light penetrated the soft gloom
which lay like a shroud over the manor park, and trees and lawns and
winding paths came suddenly to life, as by the touch of a fairy wand.
A sighing breeze stirred the leaves, from a fountain near at hand came
the soft splash of falling waters and the night air vibrated gently
with the myriad sounds of insect life.
There was a rush and a scamper, and around the corner of the house
the children raced and threw themselves upon Helen, with a shout of
delight.
"You naughty youngsters," chided their sister gently. "You ought to be
in bed this minute, everyone of you."
"We's going right off," cried Gladys breathlessly. "On'y we wants to
be kissed first."
Helen stooped down to fulfill their clamorous demand.
"Now, be off," she laughed, straightening herself up and shaking a
mildly reproachful finger at them, "and don't forget to go in and say
good-night to Auntie," and then she and Nathalie proceeded leisurely
on their way.
They found the vine-covered porch of the parsonage quite overflowing
with people. Wendell Churchill and Farr stepped hastily forward, and,
after an interchange of cordial greetings, found seats for them.
"How late you are," called Nan, from somewhere in the background. "I
thought you were not coming."
Helen left apologies and explanations to Nathalie, and turned to
answer an inquiry from Farr in regard to Jean.
"I am sorry to say she is deep in a book," she said, looking up at him
with a smile, "and we could not persuade her to leave it. However, she
promised to follow us shortly."
"And does Miss Jean always keep her promises?" Farr asked lightly.
"I think she does," Helen rejoined, meeting his eyes for an instant.
"Come, Helen. Start some of the good old hymns."
At Mollie's suggestion Helen's clear soprano took up the refrain of
"Lead, kindly light," and the others joined in heartily. From long
practice their voices blended beautifully.
They had been singing for nearly an hour when Farr rose quietly to his
feet.
"Miss Lawrence," he said, bending over her chair, "don't you think
Miss Jean should be brought to a realizing sense of her delinquencies
and coerced into making some reparation?"
"Indeed, I do," she assented with a frank laugh, "but what are we
going to do about it?"
"I don't think my desertion would be noticed if I should go in search
of her," Farr suggested, lowering his voice. "Do you?"
Helen gave him a swift glance of amusement.
"'I would not hear thine enemy say so.' But go and see what your
persuasive powers can do."
"You have put me on my mettle now," he rejoined, as he stepped over
the low railing and dropped noiselessly on to the grass below, and it
was with a sense of amusement that he recognized his own impatience
and eagerness as he set out for the manor.
He paused to light a cigarette, then strode on over the soft turf,
revolving many and varied thoughts in his mind. The brightness died
out of his eyes, and the lines of the mouth were stern and
compressed, for to-night the past with its perplexities and
disappointments rose vividly before him. In his thirty years of life
fortune had dealt him some severe blows and had set him adrift with
more doubts than beliefs, more cynicism than sentiment. His was a very
reserved and sensitive temperament, and under the garb of laziness and
indifference his troubles were jealously hidden from curious eyes. The
man's best self lay dormant, and some influence was sorely needed to
rouse him to the necessity of facing his difficulties and conquering
them before they should conquer him.
He had left the hedge behind him, and, as he came out on the
drive-way, a gleam of light from the manor house shot out through the
trees and brightened his path. Involuntarily he started, and a vision
of Jean Lawrence's face came between his mind and all painful memories
and robbed them of their sting.
Reaching the veranda steps, he threw away his cigarette, mounted them
and crossed to where the outer door stood hospitably open, revealing
the wide hall within, its shadowy recesses softly penetrated by the
light from a quaint lamp swung from the low, studded ceiling. He
lifted the hand knocker, and let it fall, then pushing his hat back on
his head, stared meditatively before him, while waiting for a response
to his summons. Not a sound broke the stillness, and at length he took
his hat in his hand and stepped across the threshold, and made his way
to the entrance of the drawing-room, across which the portières were
partly drawn. His footfalls on the soft rugs scarce heralded his
approach. The scene which met his eyes was indeed a pretty one, and
for a brief space he stood motionless.
On a low divan in a far corner of the room, Jean had thrown herself
with unconscious grace of pose. The warm coloring of the Oriental rug
and bright-colored cushions made a charming background for the slender
white-clad figure. A tall lamp shed a bright light across the open
page of her book, on which her eyes were riveted. Her face was flushed
with interest, her soft hair in fine disorder. Farr noted everything,
from the golden head, resting upon the silken cushions, to the dainty
slippered foot, just peeping beneath the hem of her gown.
A slight movement on his part discovered him to Jean, and she started
up in dismay.
"Well, Mr. Farr, you did give me a fright," she cried, laughing
confusedly, for his steady gaze disconcerted her somewhat. "I should
think you would be ashamed of yourself for having startled me so."
"I am," recovering himself with a slight effort, for the swift change
that had swept over Jean's expressive face at his unexpected
appearance had set his heart to beating with unwonted emotion. "You
will forgive me, will you not?" he finished, as he stood at her side
and looked penitently down at her.
"Why, yes, but I don't advise your making a practice of strolling into
people's houses, and appearing suddenly in their drawing-rooms; you
might be mistaken for a burglar, and I have heard," with a malicious
little laugh, "that it is unpleasant to be shot."
"Oh, come now, Miss Jean, you are very unfair to me; if you only knew
the real facts of the case."
But Jean was still a little resentful, for she felt that she had been
taken at a disadvantage.
"Really?" she answered incredulously, with a mischievous shrug of the
shoulders.
"Yes, very," he protested, with a glance of amusement into her
upraised eyes. "I did everything I could to gain admission in the
regulation way, but was quite unsuccessful."
"What a shame," she said, interrupting him with softened voice. "I
suppose the maids were all out in the garden for a stroll this fine
night, and I was so absorbed in my book that I didn't hear the
knocker."
"And then," he resumed, with a valiant disregard of the truth, "I came
in making as much ado as I conveniently could, without calling out or
overturning the furniture."
"Under the circumstances I see that you must be forgiven. Won't you be
seated, Mr. Farr? I don't know what I have been thinking of, to allow
you to remain standing all this while."
"Thank you, no. On the other hand, I want to persuade you to arise."
"Why?"
"Because I am here on a mission. I have come to reproach you for not
keeping your promise to join us at the parsonage."
"And to whom am I indebted for this kind and flattering interest?"
"None other than myself."
"Oh, you are too good," she cried laughingly, springing to her feet,
and making him a sweeping obeisance.
"If that is your honest opinion, Miss Jean, suppose you prove it by
going back with me."
"I can't be a traitor to my words," and she tossed her book on to the
table, and preceded him out into the hall-way.
"Is it cool enough for a wrap?"
Farr surveyed her muslin gown with a critical eye.
"Indeed, it is."
"All right," she yielded carelessly, "but I never take cold."
She picked up a coat from the rack, and Farr helped her on with it,
and then they wandered out into the night.
"Is it not delicious?" Jean sighed, as they sauntered leisurely along.
"It seems so to me," he returned, with a glance into the girl's eyes.
"Miss Jean," he began, after a brief silence, "Did you not tell me
once that there was a pretty walk through the shrubbery?"
"Yes?" with a note of interrogation.
"In which direction would it lead us, if we should take it now?"
"To the parsonage, eventually, but," hesitatingly, "by a much longer
way than by the path through the hedge."
"The longer, the better--for me."
"I don't know what they will think has become of us," she demurred.
Farr laughed easily.
"I never trouble myself too much about what people think."
"I don't doubt that you are in no way different from the rest of your
sex. I believe it is generally conceded that selfishness is its
salient characteristic."
"A popular fallacy. Do I not prove it to you, Miss Jean?"
"Oh, of course you are the exception that proves the rule," she
returned with gentle sarcasm.
He stopped suddenly, midway in the path they were traversing, and
looked straight down at her. There was a ring of deeper feeling in his
voice as he spoke:
"I want you to think just as well of me as you can, and I cannot
imagine having a more earnest desire than that I might always prove
worthy of your kindest thoughts."
There was a tinge of defiance in Jean's manner as she answered him
flippantly:
"Don't you think I would be using my time rather aimlessly, Mr. Farr,
were I to give it up to thoughts of you?"
An expression of keen displeasure crossed Farr's face.
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly.
Instantly Jean repented of her foolish words, and was heartily sorry
to have wounded her companion, but the slight tremor at her heart
warned her that to confess would be unwise.
"I think of you quite as much as you deserve," she ventured with a
nervous little laugh, and she began to walk on toward the shrubbery at
a brisker pace.
Farr made no immediate rejoinder, and when he spoke again it was in an
altered tone.
"There is quite a fragrance to this box-wood, is there not?"
"Yes, indeed, and a very pleasant one. The perfume is heavy these warm
nights after the sun has been shining on it all day."
"You have no idea what a charm the country has for me. I have really
been in it so little since I was a boy."
"But your home is in the country, is it not?"
"Yes, but my family spend the winters in Washington, and our country
home is only open during the summer months. I don't often get a chance
to go down there. My mother keeps the house pretty well filled, for my
two married brothers live at home."
"And have you no sisters?"
Farr's voice, which had sounded a little cold when speaking of his
home, changed to sudden tenderness.
"Yes, one, and she is the dearest little girl in the world."
"I suppose you love her dearly, and do your best to spoil her?"
"Well, Clarisse and I are certainly great chums," he assented.
"How nice it must be to have an older brother. We girls have always
regretted so that we did not have one, although," with a sad little
sigh, "we used to have a dear old friend who was just as good as a
brother; but he has gone away now."
"I suppose that there are times when they are of some use," said Farr,
"although men are so hopelessly selfish."
"I would not think of contradicting you," Jean laughingly averred.
"Come, we are talking a great deal, and not making much headway, and
it must be growing late."
"I am all tangled up in this maze of by-paths. In which direction is
the parsonage from here?"
"If you don't mind climbing a stone wall, we can turn to our right,
and take a short cut, and we will be there in no time."
Farr agreed, and they walked on in silence until they had emerged from
the shrubbery into a small clearing, skirted on the further side by a
wall, its line broken at a certain point where some stones had been
thrown down. Farr sprang lightly across, and turned back to assist
Jean. Just then the moon, which had slipped under a cloud, shone out
again, its soft rays falling directly on the girl's face. She had one
foot already on the first stepping stone when he put up his hand to
stay her.
"Well," she asked, as he did not speak. "What is it? Are you not going
to help me?"
"Of course I am, but," leaning a little toward her, "this wall is a
sort of a Rubicon. Once crossed we cannot go back, for we are then in
the parsonage grounds. It has been a pleasant walk, and one to be
remembered, has it not?"
"Yes," she murmured, with a quick indrawing of her breath.
"I wish----" he began impetuously.
"Mr. Farr," she interposed with gentle decision, "will you please help
me over."
He gave her his hand, and gravely assisted her to the ground on the
other side.
They were nearing the porch, and already the sounds of gay voices
reached them through the stillness of the summer night, when Jean
turned abruptly to the man at her side.
"By the way, Mr. Farr, we are to have a visitor shortly, and I hope
you men will help us to make it pleasant for her."
He uttered some polite commonplace, and Jean went on:
"Perhaps you know Helen's friend, a Miss Stuart of New York."
A sudden recollection flashed through Farr's mind.
"Not one chance in a thousand that it should be the same," he thought,
as he answered indifferently, "I think not."
"I thought possibly you might have met," she said carelessly. "She
seems to know almost everyone."
He half turned to put a question to her, but already they were at the
vine-covered porch, and Nan's jolly greeting lost him the opportunity.
CHAPTER VIII.
NAN REBELS.
Into the days that followed were crowded more gay doings than the
quiet village of Hetherford had ever seen before. Old Dr. Birdsall
shook his head disapprovingly over all this unseemly frivolity, but
Aunt Helen's gentle voice championed the young folks, and persuaded
him to allow Nan to join in the good times. The naval officers were in
constant demand whenever they were not on duty, and at the end of the
week the other men came out from town, and their advent was the signal
for a series of rides, drives, walks, tennis matches, and amusements
of every description.
Emily pronounced herself perfectly satisfied, and when Nan and Mollie
grumbled over a few of the changes that had followed in the train of
all these merry-makings, she declared them heretics and disdainfully
turned her back upon them.
It was after a day on the _Vortex_ that Eleanor, Nan, and Mollie sat
together in Eleanor's box of a room in the inn, and held a council of
war.
They had had a beautiful sail. There was a "smoky sou'wester" blowing,
and Uncle Sam's schooner, decked in holiday attire, had flown before
the wind like a bird. Captain Dodd proved a genial, pleasant host, and
Mrs. Dodd's heart had been quite won by Helen's notice of her
three-year-old boy, a jolly little chap, whose tow-colored hair showed
in strange contrast to his sunburned face. No stone had been left
unturned to make the day successful, and as the girls were all good
sailors, the stiff breeze and careening of the boat only added zest to
their enjoyment.
However, nothing in this world is quite perfect. Nan and Mollie
scowled at the general tendency to wander off in pairs. Mollie termed
it bad form, while Nan sniffed, and called it utterly ridiculous.
Finally Nan was roused to action. She called to Jean, who, with Farr
at her side, was leaning against the rail well up forward, and
demanded a recitation. Jean complied somewhat reluctantly. She stood
in the midst of the little group, one hand holding fast to the
companion-way to steady herself, the other tucked away down into the
pocket of her reefer. She hesitated a moment, searching about in her
mind. Her choice at length fell upon one, dearly loved by all the
girls, called "Sister Felicité."
The beautiful lines were spoken with the greatest simplicity, but
there was a depth of pathos in the girl's low voice that went straight
to the hearts of her hearers. The short silence that followed her last
words was more flattering in its import than would have been the
loudest applause. There was a slight pallor in the girl's face when
she had finished, and during the rest of the afternoon she was very
subdued; and Farr, who had been deeply impressed by her rendering of
this sad and beautiful poem, seemed to share her mood.
Nan, and Mollie, who were both a little rebellious at the turn affairs
were taking, noticed this incident, and so the council of war had been
called. Nan's conscience was quite clear, and she plunged bluntly into
the conversation.
"Now that Jean has turned sentimental and emotional, I think it is
high time for us to take matters in hand. Em always has been a
backslider from the compact, but when Jean begins that sort of thing
it is going a little too far."
"Punning is sadly out of place, Nan, on such a serious subject,"
laughed Eleanor, not sorry for an excuse to interrupt the discussion.
Nan was thoroughly in earnest, and beyond a chuckle at her own
discomfiture, she took no notice of Eleanor's frivolity.
"I don't think love affairs are much fun, anyway," sighed Mollie.
"Surely Helen's was miserable, and only resulted in making everybody
unhappy and uncomfortable."
"That strikes me as a trifle pessimistic, Moll," said Eleanor. "Happy
marriages may be rare, but it can't be denied that they exist."
"Oh! dearie me," groaned Nan, "when you talk like that you make me
feel as if the world were turning upside down. I never dreamed of it
being a question of love affairs, and marriages."
"I was not referring to anyone in particular," Eleanor protested
hastily, "we were merely arguing in an abstract way. Weren't we,
Moll?"
"All I meant was," Nan went on in a dolorous voice, "that we have lost
our originality when we begin to act just like other girls--flirting,
and all that sort of rot. We used to have fun in the good old days
when we all staid together. There were never any discussions as to how
we should walk or drive for everybody was willing to go with everybody
else. _Tête-à-têtes_ were unheard of, and nobody was ever silly."
Mollie's sentiments chimed in with Nan, but Eleanor's assent was
somewhat slower in coming.
"I suppose it is only a question of time," she said, "for the _Vortex_
can't be here much longer, and Mr. Churchill always takes the _Sylph_
back to town in September. Then we can settle down, and have a good
old-fashioned time during 'the autumn.'"
"When will Cliff go?" Nan asked, with a sly laugh.
Eleanor turned her head away to hide the tell-tale color that rose in
her face.
"Oh! come, Nancy, your imagination is running away with you. Nothing
will satisfy you short of the banishment of the sex."
"Qui s'excuse, s'accuse," quoted Mollie in an undertone.
Eleanor laughed in spite of herself. She pushed back her chair, and
crossed to the open window. Along the dusty highroad Cliff came
sauntering. When he was just in front of the inn he looked up, and
caught sight of Eleanor. He raised his hat, and called out to her to
come down, and go for a stroll before supper. She gave him a curt
refusal, and turned back into the room.
"You shouldn't punish Cliff for my impertinence," reproved Nan. "It
was not his fault."
Eleanor frowned and spoke impatiently:
"Cliff is only a boy, and a rather foolish one at that. But to
continue. All this nonsense, as you call it, Nan, will be of brief
duration, and my advice is to make the best of it."
"There is a worse time coming," Mollie declared. "The _Vortex_ has
wrought changes enough, but I don't suppose we will recognize the old
place at all when the magnificent Miss Stuart arrives."
"Sufficient unto the day," said Nan. "Well, good-by, girls I must be
off."
When the door had closed upon her two friends, Eleanor went back to
the window, and leaning against the casement, looked abstractedly out.
She thought of Cliff, and the disappointed look his face had worn when
she spoke to him so rudely. Certainly Cliff had come under the spell
that was over them all this eventful summer. She had striven to deter
him, but in spite of her best efforts, he had found a moment in which
to tell her of his love. To this she had lent the coldest ear, holding
out to him no hope whatever. Cliff had listened very patiently, but
there was something in his quiet refusal to accept this answer as
final that had made Eleanor, woman of the world as she was, feel
singularly helpless. They had taken up life again just where they had
left it before Cliff spoke, and since then no reference had been made
to the matter.
The smile had quite died out of Eleanor's face. She went over to her
writing table and picked up a little note which Cliff had written her
on some trifling matter. She looked at it for a moment, then half
raised it to her lips. With a shame-faced laugh she dropped it back
among the letters on her table and turned impatiently away.
* * * * *
One sultry morning toward the end of July, as Helen sat sewing on the
upper balcony, a maid came out through the French window with a small
tray in her hand, on which lay a yellow envelope. Helen leaned forward
and picked up the telegram.
"Thank you, Susie. Is the boy waiting?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Well, you may go. I will bring the answer down myself when I have it
ready."
When the maid had withdrawn Helen tore open the envelope. The message
read thus: "Can you come to town for the night? Want to see you.
Please don't disappoint. L. S."
Helen read it through twice.
"Oh I should love to go," she thought. "I wonder if Auntie or the
girls would object."
She folded the telegram and fitted it into the envelope, and then sat
looking absent-mindedly at the address, the while her face wore a
puzzled look. Her indecision lasted for an instant only, and then she
sprang up and ran through the hall-way to Mrs. Dennis' room.
Aunt Helen met her request with a ready consent, and in a moment the
little boy was riding off to the station with Helen's answer carefully
stowed away in the pocket of his coat.
As Helen entered her room a glance at the clock told her that a little
celerity would enable her to catch the twelve forty-five express, and
she went to work with a will to collect her traps. She was in the
midst of packing when a knock came at the door, and Jean, without
waiting for permission, entered. She looked around the disordered room
with a questioning glance.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
Her sister answered from the depths of her closet:
"I am going to town unexpectedly, and you are just the girl I want to
see, Jeanie, for I have a lot of things to say to you before I leave."
"Where are you going to stay?"
"With Lillian."
Jean's face fell, and she spoke coldly.
"What train do you take?"
"The twelve forty-five, and I haven't a moment to spare. It must be
noon now."
"It is. The village clock struck as I came in."
"Oh, dear! Put those things in the valise, Jean, won't you, while I
hunt for my hat and gloves. The carriage will be at the door in five
minutes."
Jean complied, and, as she was making room for the last few articles
in the already crowded valise, Helen came and stood beside her.
"Dearie," she said, as she drew on her gloves, "will you please be
very attentive to Aunt Helen while I am away, and not leave her too
much alone? And, oh, Jean, do look after the children. Don't have them
off your mind for a moment. I am always so afraid that something will
happen to them when I am not here."
Jean laughed cheerily.
"That is nonsense, Helen. Why in the world should you worry? Of course
I will look after them."
"I know you always do, dear; only I wanted to remind you."
"Well, you need not be anxious. When will you return?"
"To-morrow, I think. You might have the carriage meet the afternoon
express. Now I must fly."
Jean caught up the valise, and carried it downstairs, while her sister
went to say good-by to Mrs. Dennis.
The carriage was already at the door when Helen came out on the
veranda. She stopped a moment to kiss the boys and charge them to be
good, and caught Gladys up in her arms.
"Do you want to go to the station with sister?"
"Course I do," enthusiastically.
Helen put the child in the carriage, and then stepped in beside her.
"Is my valise in, Jean?"
"Yes, dear. Good-by, and have a good time."
"I will," replied Helen, as Nathalie took her place on the front seat
and gathered up the reins. "Remember, Jean, you have the entire
responsibility of the children, and do not let Gladys out of your
sight."
Jean nodded smilingly, and stood on the steps and watched the carriage
until a turn in the road bid it from view.
Then, as she slowly made her way into the house, the light died out of
her face, and involuntarily she sighed.
"I wish I did not distrust Lillian Stuart as I do," she thought. "It
is so unfounded--as yet."
CHAPTER IX.
A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Early that same afternoon Eleanor and Nan dropped in at the manor and
suggested a game of tennis. The Lawrences acquiesced, and after a
search for balls and rackets they wandered down to the courts. Jean
stopped behind for a moment to find the children and tell them to
follow her, for nurse had begged a holiday and had gone off for the
afternoon. The sun's hot rays beat down upon the unshaded courts,
discouraging even Nan's enthusiasm; so, after one set played with
flagging energy, they threw down their rackets and retired to a pretty
little summerhouse, just at the foot of the terrace. By and by, when
they were cool again, Eleanor arose and suggested that they should
stroll down toward the station to meet Cliff and Dick, who were coming
up early. Jean alone demurred. It was sweet and peaceful within the
shelter of the little summerhouse, and the prospect of a long hot walk
along the dusty road was not tempting. Most opportunely she remembered
Helen's injunction in regard to the children, and pleading this excuse
she sent the others off with a half-promise that she might join them
at the inn later, if nurse should get home in good season.
When Jean was alone, she leaned back in her comfortable corner with
an air of great contentment. She rested her elbow on the ledge of the
seat, and propping her chin in her hand gazed dreamily, unseeingly out
across the sunlit lawn. The children were playing under the shade of a
widespreading elm, and the clear treble of their young voices was a
pleasant accompaniment to her happy thoughts. Now and again, as some
look or gesture of Farr's recurred to her with peculiar distinctness,
a shy and tremulous joy dawned in her face, and lingered there.
Ah, Jean, such moments are indeed golden, when in your dreams all life
seems sweet and fair. Do not hasten the inevitable awakening, for with
the realization comes ever a sting to make the heart ache and throb.
In after days this peaceful scene will live with you, the memory of
its happiness haunt and mock you, until you fain would thrust it from
you!
Meanwhile Valentine Farr was making his way down the terraced pathway
in search of Jean, his heart strangely stirred with the thought of the
sweet voice that would speak to him, of the pair of blue eyes that
would welcome him. Then, as he walked blithely on, there fell on him
the shadow of a memory fraught with pain. He threw back his head and
drew a deep breath, as he squarely faced the difficulties that lay
before him. He knew that before he might dare to hope, before he might
dare to speak to Jean, there was much that must be told her, and
although his heart grew heavy within him, the look of resolution on
his grave face betokened a strong determination to overcome all
obstacles so far as lay within his power.
He was descending the last terrace when little Gladys ran out from
her shady playground and, holding out her arms to him, begged for a
ride. He caught her up and swinging her on to his shoulder held her
there securely as he hastened on toward the summerhouse, whence he had
seen a flutter of Jean's white gown. Gladys was wild with excitement,
and her shrill little cries of pleasure roused Jean from her reverie.
She shifted her position a little to see what was going on, and then
started up and moved forward to the arched doorway of the summerhouse
and stood waiting for them. From her elevated position, Gladys waved
frantically to her and then flung her arms tightly around Farr's neck.
"That is hot work, little one," he declared with a laugh, as he
deposited the child on the ground and raised his hat to Jean.
"Oh, it was grand!" cried Gladys, capering around and shaking her
golden curls into a tangled mass.
Jean smiled and extended her hand to Farr, but her words were for
Gladys.
"I have not a doubt of it, darling," she said, "but I fear Mr. Farr
found you a very heavy load to carry this hot day."
Gladys' head drooped, and she gave Farr a shy glance from out of the
corners of her eyes.
"Was I vewy heavy?" she asked, in such a plaintive little voice that
he had hard work to keep his face straight as he hastened to reassure
her.
"Is not this a sylvan retreat, and are you not glad you came?" Jean
queried, looking over her shoulder at him as she led the way into the
summerhouse.
"Glad!" he echoed. "Glad does not begin to express it."
"Wait until you see how sleepy and stupid I am before you make such a
rash assertion. Evidently you are in no way disheartened," she added,
as Farr, looking somewhat incredulous, took his place beside her on
the low seat.
"Not one whit," he replied softly. "It would be a very novel
experience for me to find you stupid."
Jean turned a quizzical glance upon him.
"What an extravagant compliment. Where did you learn such gallantry?"
"When first I saw you," he returned, and although he spoke lightly
there was an undercurrent of earnestness in his tone.
Gladys, who had been chasing a butterfly around and around the
summerhouse, now stopped at the doorway and peeped in. She lingered a
moment, tilting her head, first on one side and then on the other, and
smiling encouragingly on the twain. Then, as neither Jean nor Farr
took any notice of her, she twisted about and scampered off toward the
playground. Larry and Willie hailed her with delight, and anyone
watching the three little heads so close together would have known
that there was mischief brewing.
"I know some splendid fun," Willie was saying in a cautiously lowered
voice. "I read lots about it in a book. It's all about flyin' machines
an' human birds. Let's go over to the orchard, an' I'll tell you how
to play it."
"Me, too, Willie, please," piped Gladys.
"Oh, yes. You can come along, 'cause you're just the person we might
want," and Willie's air of importance was most impressive.
"I guess Jean won't mind," said Larry.
Willie was far too excited to vouchsafe a reply, and the children
scurried along toward the orchard. Their route lay past the
summerhouse, and when they were opposite it some pin-prick of
conscience made them pause and look within. Jean and Farr were deeply
absorbed in conversation, and it was quite apparent, even to their
childish minds, that their sister would never notice their absence. Of
one accord they broke into a run, and did not subside into a more
demure pace until the shrubbery hid them from view.
"You see," said Willie, when he had recovered his breath, "it is the
greatest fun to play birds. All we've got to do is to use our arms
right, an' then we can fly good enough. It said so in the book," he
ended with a wise little nod of his head.
Gladys' eyes grew big with wonder.
"Can I fly, too?" she pleaded.
"Course you can. You're just the most principal."
Gladys beamed upon him, and her face wore a proud smile. To have
Willie call her "the most principal" was a very deep and far-reaching
compliment.
Willie heaved a sigh of relief when, after scrambling over the stone
wall, they were at last within the orchard.
"Now, nobody can find us. We've all got to learn to fly. See, Larry,
you just flop your arms so. They've got to be our wings."
"Don't guess I'se got any wings," sighed Gladys, "'cause they don't
f'y me a bit."
Willie and Larry were racing around the orchard, swinging their arms
in the air until they looked like animated wind-mills. Gladys trotted
after them, striving to imitate their motions until her little legs
and arms grew very weary. Then she stopped and stood watching them
disconsolately.
"I don't fink you games any fun at all," she exclaimed, in an
aggrieved tone, as the boys ran up to her puffing and panting from
their exertions. "You don't f'y a bit like birdies, any more nor I
do."
Willie eyed her with great scorn.
"Oh, you're only a baby. Course you can't do anything."
"You said I was most principal," Gladys reminded him, with quivering
lips.
"Oh, I say," Larry broke in, "I'll tell you what we'll do, Will. We'll
play she's a baby bird, an' then we'll teach her to fly. We must put
her up in a tree, an' then pretend to shove her out of the nest, just
the way the mamma bird does."
Gladys' face brightened, and she smiled sunnily.
"P'r'aps," objected tender-hearted Willie, "she might tumble herself
an' break her wings."
Larry scouted the idea.
"You're a regular muff, Will. Gladys ain't afraid; are you, Gladys?"
"Course I aren't," cried Gladys stoutly.
After an exciting and somewhat heated discussion, the boys finally
arrived at a satisfactory decision as to the best way of getting
Gladys up into a tree, and, in the midst of much chaffing and some
wrangling, a rustic bench was drawn to the foot of a gnarled old apple
tree, and the difficult task was begun. "Oh, dear!" ejaculated Willie,
very red and very warm, "She's a terrible heavy bird."
They were in a perilous position, and Gladys' burst of laughter nearly
brought them all to the ground.
"Guess I eated too many worms," she said.
When at last she was safely perched on a projecting branch, Willie
clambered down and drew away the bench, and Larry, sitting astride
another branch, assumed the rôle of master of ceremonies.
"Now, little bird," he said authoritatively, "I ain't goin' to bring
you any more worms to eat, an' you just got to learn to fly yourself.
You must flap your wings like this, an' when I count three you must
fly away."
Gladys' first attempt to follow these instructions nearly upset her,
but she regained her balance and gripping tight hold of an overhanging
limb turned a troubled face toward her brother.
"I guess my wings is gwowed w'ong."
"Cause there ain't any feathers on 'em, I s'pose," giggled Larry.
This sally proved too much for Gladys, and flinging back her head she
burst into a merry peal of laughter. In her sudden movement her little
hands lost their hold on the limb, and plunging forward she fell
heavily to the ground. One sharp cry and then the child lay still and
silent, her little white face upturned.
"Oh!" gasped Willie, "p'r'aps she's broke her wings."
Larry slipped quickly down from the tree, and leaned anxiously over
his little sister's prostrate form.
"Get up, Gladys," he pleaded, and then, as the child did not stir, he
began to cry piteously.
For an instant Willie stood irresolute, his hands tightly clinched,
his ruddy face grown pale with fear.
"I'm going to find Jean," he said, and turned and started on a run
toward the shrubbery.
Larry caught hold of him and clung to him in an agony of fear.
"I'm awfully scared, Willie. Please don't leave me."
Willie shook him off impatiently, and pointed a reproachful finger to
where Gladys lay in an unnatural stillness, and then, without another
word, he was gone.
* * * * *
During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, and
Helen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr was
waiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his
mind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him in
her happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days;
laughing outright at the memory of many a scrape and frolic, and
speaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him the
reverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to the
poor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed that
the light of their lives had been forever darkened.
As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told in Jean's own forceful
dramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal.
It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thus
lovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed the
keynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this more
strongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happy
atmosphere, the tender relationships of Jean's home life, with his own
unloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did not
notice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called him
by name.
"Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me a
great favor to prove that you have forgiven me."
"I would find it hard to refuse you."
"Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?"
Farr signified his assent, and she continued:
"Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell me
something of your life."
Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken but
she stopped him almost imperiously.
"I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that it
was put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me,
you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and I
confess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I have
been not a little hurt by your silence."
"Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangely
enough, I came here to-day to tell you--to tell you that miserable
story, but I scarcely knew how to begin it."
He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly:
"I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until I
listened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed out
of my life."
Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him to
continue, although she did not speak.
"I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, and
I must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to my
family, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms."
"Surely that does not include Clarisse?"
"Oh, no; not Clarisse, bless her heart. She and I have always stood
faithfully by each other. My troubles began when my father died. I was
quite a little chap at the time, but I loved my poor old governor
dearly. My mother is a woman of great strength of character and with
an unbounded love of power, and she and I were decidedly antagonistic.
My father, who was the mildest of men, had the greatest admiration for
her and in most things yielded readily to her stronger will, but where
I was concerned he took a firm stand; so, although I was in great awe
of my mother, I always had a refuge in my father. My older brothers,
Lansing and Fred, never took to me at all. They were wise in their day
and generation, and even when they were youngsters studied to please,
and so in our quarrels and disputes my mother invariably took their
part. I felt the injustice without being able to reason about it, and
grew daily more surly and defiant. From the day my father died I had a
very bad time of it, and was always in disgrace. I know I was by no
means blameless, but there was something in my mother's cold disregard
of me that roused a very demon of defiance in me. Clarisse was the
only person in the world whom I honestly loved, and the first serious
trouble with my mother was on her account," and even at this day
Farr's face grew black at the remembrance. "It was a rainy day, and we
children were all playing in the nursery. Clarisse was just recovering
from an illness, and was not yet very strong. In some way she
accidentally broke a new boat of Fred's. He was angry and, after
scolding her until she began to cry, finally struck her across the
face. I sprang toward him, my blind rage lending me unusual strength,
and beat him unmercifully. Lansing, nurse, and Clarisse set up a great
hue and cry, and in the midst of it all my mother walked into the
room. Fred, who certainly did present a rather battered appearance,
rushed to her and bawled out a garbled version of the affair and I
slunk off into a corner, looking thoroughly guilty, I have not a
doubt. My mother did not wait for any explanation, but summarily sent
Clarisse and myself to Coventry. I might have forgiven her for the
injustice to myself. I was so used to it as to have hardly noticed it,
but I never forgave the unkindness to poor little Clarisse."
There was a brief silence, broken at length by Jean.
"I cannot understand it, Mr. Farr; surely a mother must love all her
children."
"I suppose my mother did in her way. I do not tell you this, Miss
Jean, to prejudice you against her nor to exonerate myself, but only
to, in a measure, explain subsequent events. There was never any
sympathy between us. My manner, my character, my very looks were
distasteful to her, and she made no attempt to conceal this from me.
Up to the time of this occurrence I had had moments of feeling very
contrite, when I had striven to overcome my faults; but from that time
I hardened myself and never tried to break down the barrier that had
been raised. Clarisse shared my feeling to a great extent, but she was
far too gentle and loving to oppose my mother. She did her best to
soften me and to prevent circumstances from embittering me. As I grew
older my relationship with my family became more and more strained,
and it was my great ambition to enter the navy and cut adrift from my
home. When finally I broached the subject to my mother, I learned for
the first time that my father had left his entire estate, which was a
considerable one, to my mother, and that I was entirely dependent upon
her. My mother was exceedingly generous in those matters, and in
justice to her I must say that, however much she may have denied me
her affection, she always treated me most liberally in a material way.
I had been given every advantage without stint, and had been brought
up in the greatest comfort and luxury, and without any adequate
knowledge of the value of money. She did not favor the idea of my
entering the navy, but I was troublesome at home, so she made a
concession and I was allowed to go to Annapolis. In the meantime my
brothers had obediently followed the careers my mother had marked out
for them, and having furthermore married in accordance with her
wishes, she provided each of them with a most liberal allowance,
retaining, however, a controlling hand in their affairs. Those years
at Annapolis were the happiest I had ever known. I had been very much
touched by my mother's yielding, and when I was at home I did my best
not to annoy or antagonize her in any way, and we really got along
very smoothly."
Farr had reached a difficult point in his story, and hesitated a
moment to mentally review the past, and then began again in the same
quiet voice that had characterized his telling of it so far.
"The summer preceding my senior year I went home to find stopping in
the house a distant cousin of mine, a very nice pretty girl, whom I
shortly discovered my mother had selected to be her third
daughter-in-law. Then I revolted. In the first place Carrie, poor
girl, was quite ignorant of the scheme and felt no interest whatever
in me, and----" He broke off undecidedly, and looked with thoughtful
eyes out across the level tennis courts. There was one thing he could
not quite make up his mind to recount to Jean. The memory of it was
growing faint (he could not but smile a little grimly as he thus
argued to himself), and why rake up that disagreeable part of his
past. In truth, how could he tell clear-eyed, pure-hearted Jean of
that other!
"Well?" interrogated Jean, cutting short his brief reverie.
His indecision was at an end. He straightened himself, squared his
shoulders, and answered with almost a show of relief.
"Well, the very fact that I was to be compelled to marry aroused such
a tempest of resentment within me that I had no room for any other
emotion. For several weeks the atmosphere was thunderous, and at the
end of that time the storm broke. I boldly announced my determination
to remain single. My mother--well, she did not spare me. She told me I
had always been a most unnatural and ungrateful son; that I had
deliberately and intentionally thwarted her in every possible way
without once considering the duty that I owed to her. She gave me to
understand most emphatically that, from the day I finished my course
at Annapolis, she would consider her obligations to me at an end. That
I might go where I pleased, do what I pleased; but, that her home was
no longer mine."
"Oh, how cruel!" escaped from Jean. Her little hands were tightly
clenched, and her eyes flashed indignantly.
"It did seem rather hard, especially just at that time," he returned
slowly, some unexpected thought lending an expression peculiarly
somber and grave in his face. "But since then I have often thought
that I gave my mother a great deal of provocation."
"By not marrying according to her desire?" asked Jean, a little
quickly.
Farr looked straight in her eyes for a moment before answering dryly:
"That was certainly a great factor; you see Carrie was an heiress, and
owned a lot of property adjoining ours."
"Oh!" was all Jean said, but the monosyllable was most expressive.
Farr laughed light-heartedly. He had been wrought up by this opening
of a long-closed chapter in his life, and it was a relief to have the
tension relaxed.
"I have never for one instant regretted it, and certainly now----"
"You haven't finished your story," Jean interrupted with but scant
courtesy, "please go on."
"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiring
you. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to this
I have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor little
Clarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend upon
me, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke down
completely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. I
never like to think of that scene."
"Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly.
"It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty,
with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitterness
redoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flung
back his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through that
first year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father's
died and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient for
all my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seen
Clarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Washington in
the winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each other
by planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future."
After a moment, he began speaking again:
"I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man at
variance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all,
you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily,
"to have you tell me what you think of me now."
"Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you think
that your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make me
sorry--oh, so sorry--for you, and to make me like you and want to be
your friend more than ever."
She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. He
had grown very pale, and he spoke huskily.
"You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why----"
"Jean! Jean!"
This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet.
They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled across
the doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously.
"Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, he
burst into a storm of tears.
Every bit of color faded from Jean's face.
"What do you mean? O Willie, where is Gladys?"
Farr put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, little man," he said kindly, "don't cry, but take a long
breath. There, that's a brave little chap. Now tell your sister where
Gladys is, and what has happened."
"We were playing birds in a tree, and Gladys fell, and she can't get
up," faltered Willie.
"Where?" Jean asked sharply.
"In the orchard."
Almost before the words had passed his lips, Jean pushed by him and
was flying toward the orchard. Farr stopped a moment, to tell Willie
to run up to the house and have them send down a couple of pillows to
the orchard and to dispatch a man on horseback for the doctor; then he
started in pursuit of Jean. He quickly overtook her, and they sped
across the intervening space in silence. As they entered the orchard
Larry's heartbreaking sobs indicated the scene of the accident, and in
another instant Jean had fallen on her knees beside her little sister.
The child's face was drawn, and the wide, distended eyes were
strangely, unnaturally bright.
"Gladys, precious, where does it hurt you?" But a moan was her only
answer.
"Oh, Mr. Farr, what can I do? How do you suppose she is hurt?"
Farr bent tenderly over little Gladys, and laid his hand lightly on
her arm. A wail of pain escaped from the child's white lips, and she
again lost consciousness.
Everything grew black to Jean and she swayed a little, leaning against
the trunk of the tree for support. Farr's voice sounded very
indistinct and strange to her.
"Come, Miss Jean, you must not faint. Do you hear me? Now, take a
mouthful of this," holding out his flask to her.
Jean obeyed him unresistingly, and rallied at once, the color coming
back into her face.
"Gladys has broken her arm," he went on, in a quiet, even voice that
somehow helped to steady her. "There, that is right. Now you look like
yourself again."
"Never mind me," she returned resolutely, straightening herself. "Is
there nothing we can do for Gladys?"
"I sent Willie to the house to tell nurse to come here with pillows
and to send Barnes for the doctor. Now give me the flask and put your
arm under her head and raise it a trifle, so that I can give her some
brandy. There, she is coming to now."
The white lids fluttered, and Gladys' eyes opened slowly.
"Jeanie, I twied to f'y, but I was too little," she murmured weakly,
and she smiled up at her sister, who was bending over her with so much
tenderness.
The sound of footsteps reached them, and nurse, a comfortable,
motherly-looking woman, bustled up to them, her arms laden with
pillows and restoratives.
Her presence brought great reassurance to Jean.
"Oh, nurse, I am so glad you are here. Gladys has been hurt."
"My poor baby, Nana will make it all well. She shouldn't have left you
at all. Whatever will Miss Helen say!"
Jean's face contracted sharply, and she turned away to hide the tears
that sprang to her eyes. Farr threw an angry glance at nurse, who, all
unconscious of her offense, was petting and comforting Gladys.
"This is no time for talking," he said. "We must get Gladys home as
quickly as possible. Miss Jean, will you help me lift her?"
Jean recognized the kindly intent in his words, and her eyes were
eloquent with gratitude.
"Little one," he went on to Gladys, "will you be a good, brave little
girl and let me carry you? I will put you on this pillow, and I will
be as gentle as possible. I can't promise that it won't hurt you some,
but when you are once home you will be so comfortable."
"All right," assented Gladys, looking up at him with touching
confidence.
But in spite of all their care, it was a very painful ordeal, and the
poor child was quite spent before the manor was reached. As they
mounted the steps of the veranda the doctor's gig drove up to the
door. They carried Gladys up to the nursery, and Farr lingered there
long enough to hear his opinion confirmed that the child had sustained
no further injury than the breaking of her arm.
"I will wait downstairs," he said in an undertone to Jean, and he went
out and closed the door softly behind him.
The moments dragged slowly, and he had almost renounced all hope of
seeing Jean again, when he heard her footfall on the stair. She came
down toward him, her white face showing the traces of tears. He sprang
forward to meet her.
"I can't stay but a moment," she said to him, "for I must go right
back to Gladys. The doctor has set her arm and has given her something
to make her sleep and he is going very soon now."
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked tenderly down at her.
"You look worn out. Won't you try and rest a little?"
She did not resent his action, but she moved a step away from him and
his hand dropped at his side. Her lips quivered.
"I don't care about myself. I shall never, never forgive myself for my
wicked thoughtlessness. That poor baby's suffering haunts me."
"I won't have you blame yourself," he declared vehemently. "I was more
at fault than you, for I claimed your attention with my stupid story."
"Don't talk nonsense," she returned gently, but, nevertheless, her
face lost much of its misery.
They were silent for a moment. The past hour had broken down the last
barrier of reserve between them and had drawn them very close to each
other. Of the two, Farr was perhaps the more conscious of the subtle
change that had been wrought, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
"You must go now," Jean told him, "but you will come back to-morrow,
won't you?" She was so sure of his answer that she did not wait for
him to speak. "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for
Gladys--and me," she added very low.
"If I have been the least help to you, Jean, it is more----" he began,
when the outer door was pushed open, and Nathalie rushed in like a
whirlwind.
"What in the world has happened," she cried excitedly. "Larry says
that Gladys is hurt, but he is too frightened to be clear about it."
Jean hastened to give her an account of the accident, shrinking back a
little from the light that streamed in from the open doorway, for fear
of what her telltale face might reveal to Nathalie's keen eyes. Farr
bade them good-by and went away, and then the two girls went directly
to the nursery.
CHAPTER X
MISS STUART'S ARRIVAL.
On this selfsame day, after a two hours' trip on the cars, Helen found
herself at length at her destination. It was somewhat after three when
she stood ringing the front-door bell of a substantial brown-stone
house in a quiet side street. The city seemed hot indeed after the
dewy freshness of the country, and the sun's rays beat relentlessly
upon the stone flagging and cobblestones. The rumblings of carriages
and wagons rolling by, the tinkling of the far off car-bells, the
constant roar of the great city fell strangely upon the girl's ears so
unaccustomed to the ceaseless din. Just then a street vender passed
by, his shrill voice crying now and again, "Peaches! peaches! ten
cents a quart!" Helen watched him pityingly until her attention was
attracted by a hand-organ grinding away, "White wings, they never grow
weary." Two poor little urchins sat on a neighboring doorstep pitching
pennies, their small pale faces making her heart ache as she wondered
what a glimpse of green fields and winding lanes would be to them. A
feeling of sadness assailed her, as these sights and sounds, so
familiar to city life, awakened within her a realization that outside
of her sheltered life lay so many full of sorrow and suffering. Her
reverie was cut short by the appearance of the maid, who immediately
ushered her into the darkened drawing-room. Between the closed
shutters crept a few rays of straggling sunlight which fell upon the
furniture in its muslin slips, the bronzes and gas jets in their
wrappings of tarlatan.
Helen had hardly found a seat, when someone hastily descended the
stairs, and pushing open the door, made a rush across the room and
threw her arms about her.
"You dear girl," Miss Stuart cried, "how glad I am to see you, and how
good of you to come. You cannot imagine how overjoyed I was when I
received your telegram."
"But I wanted to come, Lillian. You do not seem to take that into
consideration." Then, after a pause, "Ah! how lovely you look, but
then it seems to me you invariably do."
Helen was right, for Miss Stuart, gowned in a dainty peignoir of white
silk covered with filmy lace, looked especially charming.
At the compliment she laughed softly, and pinched Helen's cheek.
"There is no curing you, is there, dear? I thought, perhaps, a
separation from me might have improved you."
"But you must not expect it," Helen maintained naïvely, "unless you
grow less pretty."
Miss Stuart kissed her warmly. "Let us talk sense now," she said
reprovingly. "Were you surprised at my message? I must explain. I was
obliged to come down for mamma on a matter of business, and as it was
too long a trip to return again to Bar Harbor to-day, I thought it
better to rest, and remain overnight in town."
"And do you go back to-morrow?"
"Well, no; not if you will take me to Hetherford with you."
"Indeed I will, with the greatest pleasure."
"And you are quite sure it is convenient now? I did not expect to be
with you until the middle of August, but being obliged to come down at
this time, I thought perhaps I had better go to you at once for my
visit. Later I have several others to pay, and do not know that I
could manage then to get to Hetherford at all."
"I am delighted to have you at once, Lillian; you could not come too
soon to please me, and you can always be sure of a welcome at the
manor."
"Yes, with you, but I am not so sure of those sisters of yours."
Helen flushed. "Pray don't say that."
"Ah, my dear, don't let it trouble you. I rest quite content in your
affection."
But whatever there was in Miss Stuart's words or tone, a shadow rested
on Helen's face for some little while afterward.
Perhaps Lillian Stuart saw it, for, by and by, she began to speak
again of the manor.
"You have no idea, Helen, how much I long to see your lovely home, nor
with what pleasure I look forward to being with you, dearest."
"You are good to say so, Lillian, and I will do all in my power to
make you happy."
"You will not have to try, dear, I am sure."
Miss Stuart rose and touched a bell. A quiet middle-aged woman
answered it.
"Mrs. Perkins, Miss Lawrence remains with me overnight. See that
dinner is prepared for us."
"Yes, Miss."
"Wait, Perkins. I want you to send Virginie to me."
In a moment the French maid was knocking on the door.
"Virginie, preparez la chambre voisine de la mienne, et portez-y le
sac de Mlle. Lawrence."
When the girls at length were seated in Miss Stuart's pretty boudoir,
they fell into a long and pleasant chat, finding much to say to one
another after several months' separation.
By and by Miss Stuart presented a programme for the evening, saying.
"Now, Helen, you little puritan, don't dare to find fault or
criticise. My cousin, Harry Stuart, is going to take us to the
theater, and it will be perfectly charming. He is almost like a
brother to me, and there could not be the slightest impropriety in
it."
Helen did not demur then, but, after returning from the theater and in
looking back over the evening, she felt some misgivings. "Harry"
proved to be a gay, scatterbrained youth, more or less in love with
his beautiful cousin. He stared a little curiously at Helen on being
presented, and then devoted himself exclusively to Miss Stuart, whom
he treated with a lack of deference, a familiarity, which Helen hotly
resented. Miss Stuart, however, was apparently quite oblivious of it,
and flirted with him openly, exchanging glances of amusement with
him, as Helen's face grew graver and graver.
A chance remark of his, which unfortunately reached Helen's ears, did
not tend to soften her judgment of him.
"Who is your little friend, coz? She is tremendously respectable, and
doesn't approve of us at all."
Helen retired to her room that night in a frame of mind to find
serious fault with her fascinating friend.
Miss Stuart realized that she had gone a little too far, and
determined to overcome the impression she had made. She well knew the
power that her great beauty exerted over Helen, blinding her to faults
that he who ran might read, so she coiled her mass of auburn hair most
becomingly, slipped on a dainty pale blue wrapper, encased her feet in
slippers of the same hue and presented herself in Helen's room, and
proceeded to make herself so charming and agreeable that in ten
minutes Helen had completely forgotten her grievance.
The following morning, at an early hour, they left for Hetherford.
Helen neglected to wire Jean of their change of plan, so no carriage
met them at the station, and they were obliged to rumble up to the
manor in the old Hetherford stage.
Helen's heart sank when Jean ran down to the veranda to tell her of
Gladys' accident.
"You cannot imagine how I felt, Helen, for I knew it was all my fault.
I should not have forgotten her for one moment."
"Indeed, I think you were very careless, Jean." Helen spoke sharply,
for her anxiety made her nervous and irritable.
Jean had gone forward and shaken hands with Miss Stuart, but at these
words she turned abruptly away. She felt so reproached and woe-begone.
It almost seemed to her that all the world must know how completely
absorbed she had been in that sweet talk with Farr, to have allowed
her mind to wander from the little sister. In this guilty and
depressed state of mind, her welcome to Miss Stuart somewhat lacked
cordiality, and the latter, who had never liked Jean, found herself no
whit better pleased.
Nathalie came flying down the stairs, making a fortunate diversion.
"Now, Helen, don't scold Jean, for she is heartbroken. Gladys is doing
splendidly and will be about in a few days. How do you do, Miss
Stuart? I am very glad to see you, and so sorry that our anxiety about
Gladys is making us forget to make you at home. Please let me take
your bag, and come right up to your old quarters."
Helen looked gratefully at her sister, and Miss Stuart's manner
relaxed under this warm cordiality, and she followed Nathalie up to
her room.
Jean went out upon the veranda, and walked slowly up and down. Her
thoughts, which for a moment had been diverted, flew swiftly back to
Farr. He had not spoken the words, yet she knew he loved her. She
trembled a little, startled at the depth of emotion this knowledge
aroused in her. So this was love--this sudden wild beating of her
heart, this passionate joy of living.
"Poor fellow," she thought, with yearning tenderness, "how much he has
suffered."
It was a blessed comfort to feel that it lay within her power to help
to brighten his lonely, loveless life. She stood quite still and
clasped her hands tightly together. "I love him! I love him!" The
unspoken words sent the blood to her cheeks, and she was filled with
dismay. She roused herself abruptly from her dream and hastened
upstairs to join Helen in the nursery.
That day seemed interminable to Jean. When the long afternoon had worn
away and Farr had not come, she consoled herself with the thought that
the evening would surely bring him. She tried to curb her impatience
by filling the slow-footed moments with manifold unnecessary duties,
but it seemed to her that the happy time would never come.
They were all very quiet at dinner, for Helen was listening for the
slightest sound from the nursery, while Jean's absorbing thoughts held
her tongue in chains.
"Well, well," cried Nathalie at last, "what will Miss Stuart think of
us? No doubt that this is the home of the Sphinx. Our silence is
growing gruesome."
Thus recalled to her duties as hostess, Helen glanced quickly at her
friend, and was distressed to see the expression of cold disdain that
rested on her face.
"I beg your pardon, Lillian," she said penitently, leaning forward
and taking Miss Stuart's hand. "I am so upset about Gladys that I have
forgotten my manners."
"Pray, don't apologize, Helen. It is of no consequence whatever." Miss
Stuart spoke with studied indifference and withdrew her hand. She
deemed it only her right to be first with her friends always and under
all circumstances; and to have Helen, adoring, subservient Helen,
relegate her to a position of secondary importance was an offense
which merited instant punishment.
Jean and Nathalie, on the alert for any slight to their sister,
exchanged significant glances.
Helen made no further demonstration of affection, but began to talk
gently and courteously to her guest. Jean and Nathalie came valiantly
to her assistance, until at last Miss Stuart was forced to respond to
their friendly overtures. When they were leaving the dining room she
slipped her hand into Helen's arm. It was the nearest approach to an
apology of which her nature was capable, and Helen had fain to be
content. All her life Miss Stuart had been in the habit of snubbing
people at her own sweet will and had found it a diverting occupation;
but somehow it hurt her to snub Helen, the girl was always so patient
and generous about it.
They drifted quite naturally out onto the veranda. The sky was
overcast, and a faint wind sighed among the trees. The heavy clouds
promised rain, and the earth, after reveling in days of sunshine and
nights of brilliant beauty, seemed wrapped in melancholy submission.
Before very long Nan and Emily came running across the lawn. Nan
greeted Miss Stuart cordially, but Emily was very cool, and looked
askance at this dangerously beautiful addition to their circle. When
she had shaken hands, she faced the girls as solemn as a judge.
"Girls, what do you suppose has happened? The _Vortex_ has gone away,
and those miserable men never came to say good-by, and did not even
send a line."
"Now see here, Emily," Nan interposed warmly. "I don't believe in
being unjust. It must have been a sudden move, and of course we will
hear from them."
"It is a great shame," complained Nathalie. "What shall we do with
ourselves?"
At Emily's first words Jean started forward, then fell back in her
chair, dazed and stunned. She pressed her hand against her heart to
stay its loud throbbing, passionately grateful that the kindly
darkness sheltered her from view. She could not tell how long it might
have been when she was aroused by a sentence from Emily which arrested
her attention.
"Yes, it is such a pretty stitch. I'll teach it to you some day,
Helen."
Had she heard aright? Could it be possible that the _Vortex_ was
already forgotten--its officers banished to the indifferent past? Her
sudden excitement died away and a dull feeling of pain tugged at her
heart. Her hands dropped nervelessly into her lap, and her lids closed
wearily over her aching eyes.
The conversation drifted into local channels, and Miss Stuart was
beginning to feel very much bored when Eleanor and Cliff sauntered up
the driveway and joined the party. She awaked from her apathy to
survey Cliff critically, and then proceeded to monopolize his
attention. Cliff dropped into a chair beside her and lent himself
readily to her plan. She was a charming woman, a beautiful woman, so
he assumed his most devoted manner, and apparently succumbed at once
to her gracious, subtle flattery. Eleanor cast an amused glance at him
over her shoulder; she felt too sure of him to be disturbed; and
pushing her way among the group until she reached Jean's side:
"I met Johnnie Matthews at the gate, dear. He was on his way to the
manor with a note for you, and, since it required no answer, I
volunteered to bring it up."
"Thanks, Eleanor. I suppose Mrs. Matthews wants me to take her class
again next Sunday. She has been ill."
Eleanor had dropped the note into Jean's lap and was moving away, but
something in her friend's voice startled her. She looked at her
curiously, but in that light she could not discern her expression. She
hesitated a moment, and then sat down on the arm of Jean's chair.
"How is Gladys to-night?" she asked.
Jean made an effort to speak more naturally.
"Very comfortable, thank you. The doctor says her arm is doing nicely,
and so far she has not had any fever."
"Eleanor, did you know the _Vortex_ had gone?"
As Nathalie spoke Eleanor impulsively took Jean's hand in hers. It was
very cold, and trembled in her clasp. Jean's unhappiness was
explained, and at the same moment another idea flashed through her
mind. She answered Nathalie with well-feigned lightness:
"It can't be more than a temporary absence, I am sure." Then added in
a lower tone to Jean, "Don't you want to read your note, dearie? It
may not be from Mrs. Matthews."
Jean gave a start, and, instinctively, her disengaged hand closed over
the note in her lap.
"I think I will take it to the light."
She rose hurriedly and made her way to the doorway, where the light
from the lamp fell upon her letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar,
and Jean's heart seemed to stand still as she tore open the envelope.
The opening words dispelled the last doubt; her whole expression
changed, and she eagerly drank in the contents of the sheet, all
unconscious of the pair of eyes that were watching her narrowly.
Nothing escaped Miss Stuart. She saw plainly the sudden start, the
rising color, the tremulous happiness in the young girl's face.
Perhaps the sight stirred some strange memory, deep hidden in her
heart, for she smiled bitterly, and answered some pleasantry of
Cliff's with such stinging cynicism that even that languid youth was
aroused to retort.
But to Jean the whole world was forgotten, as she read the lines:
MY DEAR MISS LAWRENCE:
It is with deep regret I write you that the _Vortex_ has
been ordered up the Sound to survey a certain locality. Most
unfortunately, our orders came very late. We have only just
time to catch the tide by weighing anchor at once. I do not
know whether you realize how great is my disappointment at
leaving Hetherford, or how great is my regret at not seeing
you before I go. Our stay, I trust, will not extend beyond a
week, and I look forward with great pleasure to the time
when we once more cast anchor in your harbor. I shall be
anxious for news of little Gladys, and if I did not fear to
presume, I should ask you to write me. Perhaps your goodness
of heart will prompt you to forgive and indulge me at the
same time. My address will be F----, which is the
post-office nearest to our anchorage.
Yours faithfully,
VALENTINE FARR.
Jean raised her eyes and let them rest on the group of people outside
the doorway. No one, apparently, had a thought for her; for Miss
Stuart had discreetly withdrawn her gaze, and they one and all seemed
absorbed in the merry conversation. She longed to slip away to her own
room, that she might be alone with her happy thoughts, but paused,
irresolute, wondering, as she crumpled the note in her hand, if it
would be unpardonably rude to leave her guests thus abruptly. Helen
came to her rescue.
"Jean, will you please go up and see if Gladys is asleep?"
Jean nodded her head in assent, and gladly disappeared. Eleanor looked
after her with a kindly smile, yet she sighed a little,
notwithstanding.
"What would Nan do if she knew this?" she thought.
Shortly afterward a servant came to the door, bringing word that Miss
Gladys was sleeping soundly, and that Miss Jean begged to be excused,
as she had a headache.
In the night the rain fell heavily, and the rising wind sighed and
sobbed like a child in pain, but Jean's dreams were sweet, and her
last sleeping and first waking thoughts were of Valentine Farr.
CHAPTER XI.
DULL DAYS.
The days that followed were the quietest that this summer had brought
to Hetherford. Not only had the _Vortex_ gone, but Wendell and
Churchill had carried the other men off on the _Sylph_ for a
long-planned fishing excursion, and the girls were left to their own
devices. This was too common an occurrence to be looked upon as a
great hardship; yet it was quite obvious, even to Nan, that they did
not revel so much in their once treasured independence, and that the
old-time simple pleasures had somehow lost their zest. There was
something strangely amiss in the little colony. Jean, who had always
been depended upon to set the ball rolling, and to keep everyone in
good spirits, failed them utterly. She was so quiet and absent-minded,
so unlike her usual self, that Eleanor began to fear that her surmises
in regard to the letter had been incorrect after all. Miss Stuart's
presence at the manor acted as a great restraint upon everybody. She
did not adapt herself in the least to their quiet, humdrum existence,
and maintained a stoical silence that was especially irritating. The
weather was very depressing. A fine drizzling rain fell persistently,
the sky was gray and leaden, and the roads and lanes were almost
impassable with the mud. The dampness retarded Gladys' recovery, and
she was fractious and troublesome. Poor Helen was in despair, for Miss
Stuart was unreasonable enough to resent her spending so much time in
the nursery, and took small pains to conceal the fact that she was
almost bored to death.
By Friday Aunt Helen was seriously fretting over her niece, for Helen
was looking pale and tired and seemed quite incapable of coping with
the anxieties of housekeeping, Gladys, and the entertainment of her
difficult friend.
On the afternoon of this day the rain ceased and Nathalie, in despair
of any more interesting amusement, declared her intention to drive to
the station to see the express arrive.
"Not that anyone ever comes here," she said dolorously as she drew on
her driving gloves.
An hour later she burst into the drawing-room, her face radiant, her
eyes twinkling. Helen sat before the low tea-table serving tea, Miss
Stuart lounged in a huge armchair, while Jean was on her way between
the tea-table and Miss Stuart, with a dainty cup in her hand. She
paused, and looked expectantly at Nathalie.
"Well, cheer up, girls, for I have some news at last. Who do you think
arrived to-day?"
Even Miss Stuart leaned forward in her chair, and lost something of
her air of languor.
"Don't ask tiresome riddles, Nathalie," pleaded Jean, "but tell us."
"Mrs. Archer."
Miss Stuart looked blank; Helen laughed softly, and Jean handed Miss
Stuart her cup of tea with a disgusted expression on her bonny face.
"You must, indeed, be in the depths to call that good news," she said
scornfully.
"I didn't say good news. I said news," Nathalie retorted triumphantly,
"and in any case I think Mrs. Archer is a godsend after the monotony
of the last few days."
Miss Stuart smiled faintly for Nathalie, but echoed her sentiments.
"I think Cliff's mother is a charming woman," interposed Helen. "She
is somewhat overbearing and imposing, but I know she does not mean to
be disagreeable."
"I like her," maintained Nathalie. "She is so worldly, so thoroughly
magnificent."
Jean laughed and meekly took her cup of tea from Helen.
"I have not another word to say. I suppose the truth is that I am
mortally afraid of Mrs. Archer. She completely subdues me."
After a moment she spoke again, from the comfortable place she had
taken on the divan:
"Do you know, Nathalie, just for one moment I thought it might have
been Guy of whom you were speaking."
Helen set the teapot down suddenly, and there was a moment's
uncomfortable silence. Miss Stuart let her glance travel slowly from
Helen's flushed face to Jean's grave one.
"Are you speaking of Mr. Appleton?" she asked lazily.
"Yes," replied Jean, with perfect unconsciousness, "I suppose you met
him at the same time you did Helen. I wish it had been he instead of
Mrs. Archer."
Miss Stuart shrugged her shoulders, and answered with insolent
disregard of Jean's evident affection for Guy:
"A nice enough man in his way, but so deadly uninteresting, so lacking
in that knowledge of the world which alone makes a man worth talking
to."
Jean's eyes flashed, and her voice trembled with anger.
"Mr. Appleton is a very dear friend of ours, Miss Stuart, and to none
of us is it agreeable to hear him spoken ill of."
She looked impulsively across at Helen, feeling sure that her sister
would speak some word of vindication of Guy, but the girl's head was
bent and she seemed wholly occupied in pushing the tea-cups aimlessly
about on the polished surface of the mahogany tea-table. For the first
time in her life Jean felt a contempt for her sister, and pressed her
lips tightly together to keep down the bitter words that rose to them.
Nathalie, who hated a scene above all things, and yet was too
thoroughly in sympathy with Jean to feel equal to changing the
conversation, sat down at the piano and began to drum.
Miss Stuart looked from one to the other and laughed unpleasantly.
"Mr. Appleton should be proud of such an ardent champion."
Jean made no answer. She finished her tea in silence and then left
the room, followed by a sneering glance from Miss Stuart's eyes.
That evening Mrs. Andrews and her sister, Mrs. Archer, called at the
manor. The young people had taken advantage of the first clear evening
since Miss Stuart's arrival and had gone for a walk, so Mrs. Dennis
asked her guests up to her room. During the conversation Mrs. Andrews
said:
"How badly Helen is looking lately."
Aunt Helen agreed with her and related to Mrs. Archer the facts of
Gladys' accident, and dilated upon Helen's untiring devotion to her
little sister.
"She is worn out," she sighed in conclusion, "and it is so hard for
her to have Miss Stuart here just at present."
"You don't mean Lillian Stuart, that beautiful girl about whom
everyone is raving?" exclaimed Mrs. Archer, roused to a degree of
interest she rarely felt when in Hetherford.
"I suppose it is the same. She is certainly very beautiful, but
somehow," and Aunt Helen's face grew puzzled, "she doesn't seem at all
the kind of girl my Helen should care for. However, they are close
friends, so I----"
"Oh, she is a great belle," Mrs. Archer interrupted brusquely. "Poor
girl! What in the world does she do with herself in this
out-of-the-way place?"
Mrs. Andrews replied with some heat:
"She must be very hard to please if she cannot find anything to amuse
or interest her here."
A gleam of amusement flashed into Aunt Helen's eyes, but was instantly
suppressed. Hetherford was the basis of an old feud between the
sisters, and had been the cause of more than one bitter quarrel. Mrs.
Archer was a fashionable woman to the tips of her fingers, and for
years she had striven to impress her easy-going sister with the
importance of society, and to persuade her at least to spend her
summers in some resort more frequented by the world of society. Mrs.
Andrews, however, stood out against her and stoutly maintained that
she and her children were perfectly happy where they were, and Mrs.
Archer had to content herself with an occasional visit from her niece
Mollie, who was eminently unsatisfactory as a fashionable girl. To
crown her displeasure, her only son Clifford, instead of finding
pleasure in his charming home at Newport, insisted upon spending the
summer at Hetherford Inn, and Mrs. Archer bore a great grudge against
this small place. She was a very hospitable woman, and enjoyed keeping
open house, but she found it a great drawback to have no young person
at home.
As she rose to leave, it suddenly occurred to her that it would be
very delightful to take two of the girls back to Newport with her. Her
choice fell upon Helen, because in that way she could include Miss
Stuart in the invitation. Mrs. Dennis met the suggestion with
approval, for she knew it would do Helen good to get away from home
for a few days, and that so pleasant a change would please Miss
Stuart. In the midst of the discussion, the two girls walked into the
room.
Mrs. Archer's shrewd, worldly eyes took in every detail of Miss
Stuart's beautiful face and faultless gown, and she instantly dropped
the somewhat patronizing tone she had used toward Helen, and urged
their acceptance with great cordiality. Helen hesitated, for she was
loath to leave Gladys again, but Aunt Helen and Miss Stuart overruled
all her objections, and it was agreed that they should accompany Mrs.
Archer.
The quiet that settled down over the manor after their departure was
very grateful to Jean, who during the past week had been disturbed and
harassed. She knew that she was fast approaching the most serious
crisis of her life. All during these joyous summer days she had
drifted on so happily, evading self-questionings, living only for the
day. Now she realized that the drifting was at an end. On his return
Valentine Farr would speak to her, and although she had no doubt as to
the answer she would give him, yet she trembled a little and would
fain have been alone with her secret. And now, when she would have had
her whole mind dominated by this one thought, Miss Stuart's unwelcome
presence in the house thrust other and less pleasant thoughts upon
her. Up to the time of this last visit Jean's dislike of Miss Stuart
had been a vague, passing sentiment, which had concerned her but
little. She had distrusted her always, but even that distrust was
purely intuitive, for she had no idea of the part Miss Stuart had
played in the severing of Helen's engagement. In that slight
controversy about Guy, however, Jean had unwittingly pierced beneath
the surface of Miss Stuart's suave manner, and had caught a glimpse of
the girl's true nature. She could not understand why this should
affect her so strongly. In vain she tried to account for it to
herself. Miss Stuart, although so dear a friend of Helen's, occupied a
comparatively unimportant position in their home life. In another
fortnight she would be gone from among them, and for months they would
know nothing of her, save what Helen might choose to communicate from
her oft received letters. So Jean argued with herself, battling with a
curious sense of apprehension that struggled within her. She longed to
talk it all over with Aunt Helen, whose judgment was always to be
trusted; but that seemed a kind of disloyalty to Helen, so she
smothered the vague doubts and fears which threatened to overwhelm her
usual good sense. Her thoughts flew off to Farr, and poised over that
strange talk they had had on that last afternoon. She drew from her
pocket a letter that had come from him, and read it over slowly,
lingering over every sentence. But when she had finished and was
folding it into its envelope again, she sighed a little, for even that
dear missive could not quite dispel the vision which haunted her of
Lillian Stuart's beautiful, cruel face.
CHAPTER XII.
EDDYING CURRENTS.
Monday dawned bright and clear. When Jean awoke the sunlight was
flooding the room, and through the open window came the sweet voices
of the birds as they merrily chirped and sang. As she sprang out of
bed she was filled with a sense of well-being and happiness. She could
even find it in her heart to laugh a little scornfully at the fancies
that had disturbed her, for they had vanished with the vanishing
clouds. She dressed hurriedly and ran down to the dining room with a
snatch of song upon her lips. By her plate on the breakfast table lay
an envelope addressed in a man's legible handwriting. She flushed as
she caught it up, and crossed to the window to read it. Farr had
written in great haste to say that the _Vortex_ would be in Hetherford
Harbor by noon on Monday. When Jean had reached that point in his note
she read no further. She stood very still, her hands holding the bit
of paper closely, her breath coming hurriedly through her slightly
parted lips. For one moment thus--then the maid entered bearing the
coffee urn, Larry clattered noisily into the room, and Jean turned
back to the ordinary duties of everyday life. But her face was still
illumined, and in the depths of her shining eyes lingered the
reflection of her soul's great happiness.
During the morning a telegram came from Helen saying that she and Miss
Stuart would arrive by the afternoon express. Jean had just terminated
a long interview with the cook, and was frowning portentously over her
unusual duties as housekeeper, when Nathalie brought her the news. She
made a grimace and then proceeded to inform Nathalie of the
approaching arrival of the _Vortex_, subduing as best she could the
tremor of excitement in her voice. Nathalie was jubilant. At last the
dull days were at an end, and they would start on a new round of
festivities. While she was chattering volubly it suddenly occurred to
Jean that it would be a pleasant welcome to Helen and Miss Stuart to
ask Mr. Dudley and Farr to dinner. She made the suggestion timidly,
for she feared that Nathalie would divine the true motive which
prompted her. Her mind was instantly set at rest, for Nathalie,
overjoyed at the break in the monotony, gave her a friendly push
toward the desk to hasten the writing of the notes. Jean laughingly
reminded her that the _Vortex_ had not yet arrived, and then they put
their two heads together to concoct a dinner which should quite equal
one of Helen's ordering.
That afternoon, as they were about starting for the station, Barnes
brought back the answer from the _Vortex_. Farr's was of so grateful
and rejoicing a nature that Jean laughed light-heartedly as she read
it. It came to her suddenly, as they were bowling along the highroad,
that in her note to him she had not mentioned the fact that Miss
Stuart was with them, nor had she done so in the one letter she had
written him during his absence.
"It was just an oversight," she said to herself. "A mere chance."
A mere chance, and yet chance sometimes means fate.
Helen met them with so many questions about Gladys, the boys, and Aunt
Helen, that Jean had no opportunity to unfold her plan for dinner
until Miss Stuart had gone to her room, and she had followed her
sister into the nursery. Helen was tired and travel-worn, but she was
delighted by Jean's thoughtfulness for Lillian's pleasure, and
listened interestedly while her sister anxiously submitted the menu
for her approval.
"Everything is perfect, dear," she said, putting Gladys down from her
lap and making her way out into the hall, "but before I go to dress I
must tell Lillian that we are to have guests to dinner," and she
turned away without noting the shadow that crossed Jean's face at the
mention of Miss Stuart's name.
Miss Stuart stood before her dressing-table arranging the silver
toilet articles which she had just taken from her trunk. She had
thoroughly enjoyed her stay at Newport, and was feeling in a good
humor with all the world. She turned a bright glance of inquiry as the
door opened to admit Helen, and betrayed a ready interest in her
friend's announcement.
"Who are the men?"
"Two officers from the Coast Survey schooner that is anchored here,
Mr. Dudley and Mr. Farr; Valentine Farr."
The little vinaigrette Miss Stuart held in her hand dropped on the
dressing-table. Her face contracted sharply, and she made a quick
instinctive movement away from the light.
"Valentine Farr," she repeated slowly, keeping her voice well under
control. "It must be the same of course."
"Do you know him?" Helen asked the question absent-mindedly, for she
was looking about her critically, to assure herself that everything in
the room was as it should be.
"Oh, yes. I have known him for a long while." She had quite recovered
from her surprise, and spoke lightly, in her usual tone. "What a small
world it is after all."
"Dinner at seven, Lillian," Helen said to her as she closed the door;
and then she was alone.
"So Val is here," she murmured. "Val, of all people in the world." She
flung back her head with a reckless laugh, and began to pace up and
down the room.
A flood of recollections swept over her; recollections which stirred
her with a strange emotion. How long ago it seemed since
sunny-tempered strong-willed Val Farr had wooed her in so masterful a
way. What folly it had been, and yet a sweet folly withal! Miss Stuart
paused midway in the room. Her face softened, and her beautiful mouth
drooped tenderly. She had craved a splendid future which Val could
not give her, so she had thrust his love out of her heart, and filled
its place with the admiration and exactions of the gay world in which
she moved. Val's misfortunes, his poverty, and his estrangement from
his family gave her the opportunity which she sought to jilt him. She
frowned with vexation as she recalled the look of scorn that he had
cast at her when she had laid bare to him the aims and ambitions to
which she had sacrificed their love. And after all, it had been a
useless, needless exposure, for Val had come to her to give her her
freedom. She told herself that she had acted wisely, she laughed to
scorn the sentiment that was so hard to stifle--but no other man had
ever taken Val's place.
They had met from time to time in Washington, during the past few
years, and at each fresh meeting Farr had found himself more and more
disillusioned concerning the woman whom he had once loved. Something
of this Lillian Stuart divined, with a bitterness of spirit which she
could not quell. His indifference stung her to the quick, and she
could not renounce the hope that she might win him back, if only
circumstances would give her the opportunity. Miss Stuart's thoughts
brought her back to the present. She drew her brows together and
stared meditatively before her, with eyes that saw nothing of the room
around her:
"I wonder if Val is in love with one of these girls, and if so which
one."
Jean Lawrence's face flashed before her. She struck her hands sharply
together, and an angry light gleamed in her eyes.
"That would be a curious way of punishing me. I have always detested
that sister of Helen's."
She crossed to the mirror, and gazed critically at the picture
presented there. A smile, slow and cruel, touched her lips, and with a
satisfied air of triumph she turned away and began to dress for
dinner.
The hands of the little French clock on the mantel were close upon
seven, when a knock came at the door and Helen entered. She started
back with a faint gasp of admiration, as Miss Stuart turned from the
dressing-table and swept across the room to meet her.
"O Lillian," she cried, "how beautiful you look; but, my dear, you
will take away my guests' breath. You know we are thoroughly informal
at Hetherford."
Miss Stuart raised her hands to clasp a string of pearls about her
throat, with slow deliberation.
"I am very sorry," she said distantly, "that my gown does not meet
with your approval. I can easily change it."
"Why Lillian, I find your gown charming, and would not have you change
it for the world; I exclaimed simply because I did not expect to see
you _en grande toilette_."
"It did not occur to me that I was inappropriately dressed, but of
course I am not conversant with your customs here."
The covert sneer was not lost upon Helen, and she flushed painfully at
the sharp words. With her usual self-depreciation she felt reproached
for what she considered her lack of tact and courtesy.
"I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am, Lillian," she murmured,
with deep contrition, "for my inadvertent speech. I never knew you to
look lovelier. Won't you please believe me when I tell you that?"
The naïveté of the compliment touched Miss Stuart, and she smiled
gayly into Helen's troubled eyes.
"I admit that I did not understand you at first. I thought that I was
guilty of a social error. However, it is all right now."
Helen put her hand on her shoulder, and turned her gently around.
"I want to really see your gown. It is exquisite. What perfect taste
you have, Lillian."
Miss Stuart's gown was of the palest shade of green velvet, made so
simply as to be almost severe in its lines. The low-cut bodice was
ornamented with some fine cut jet, and a little dagger of the same was
thrust through the soft coil of auburn hair which crowned her small
and shapely head. Her neck and arms shone dazzlingly fair, and the
contour of the firm white throat would have delighted the eyes of an
artist. The long straight lines of her gown accentuated her height,
which was somewhat above the average, and she carried herself with
regal grace.
Helen gazed at her a moment in silent admiration. She absolutely
worshiped beauty, and its power over her was very great. Had anyone
hinted to her that it was chiefly this in Miss Stuart which so charmed
her, she would have indignantly refuted the accusation, and yet in a
great measure it was true. Many and many a time she had cause to
puzzle over her friend--aye, almost to distrust and fear her; but the
power of the girl's great beauty blinded her and left her helpless to
condemn one who possessed such infinite attraction.
The silence lasted but a moment, yet Miss Stuart had read Helen's
verdict in her transparent face, and her pulses quickened with
triumphant hope.
"Well, well," she cried laughingly, at length, "are you spellbound,
and have you forgotten your guests?"
Helen cast a hurried glance at the clock.
"Why, it is seven. I must run down at once. Follow me as soon as you
can, dear."
Down in the drawing-room, Jean was wandering restlessly about, too
excited to keep still for one moment. She wore the simplest of her
gowns, but one which Farr had once told her he liked. Jean was almost
without vanity, but to-night, as she passed the long mirror over the
mantel, she could not refrain from glancing therein. She was counting
the slow-footed moments, and at every turn her eyes consulted the old
Dutch clock in the corner. At last a carriage drove up the graveled
road, there were steps upon the veranda, and the front door opened and
closed again. She longed to run out into the hall, but an overwhelming
shyness deterred her; and eve
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